The Reason(s) 'Mary Potter and the Chained Servant' Still Isn't Done
by LeighaGreene
Summary: Yes, I'm finally bowing to the temptation to post my WIPs. All of them are AU, if only because they use Mary Potter background as a starting point. Some of them are recursive AUs. They vary widely in style and length. Some are intended for much more mature audiences than others: see summary chapters for smut warnings. The first chapter is the Table of Contents.
1. Table of Contents

I'm just going to preface this collection with an apology for dropping off the face of the planet for the last little while and missing my last Mary Potter update. And possibly preemptively for missing the next one. Um. Sorry.

In my defense, real life comes first, and I just moved for the second time in five months. Also I have a real job now, so writing basically full time is not really an option anymore. Plus, writer's block. The struggle is real.

So, while I continue to work on Mary Potter (slowly, painfully, and with much cursing of being a real adult with adult responsibilities), I figured I'd let you all read the various stories I've started since I started writing the Chained Servant in an effort to beat the writer's block into submission.

To be perfectly clear, _all_ of these are works in progress, and I make no promises about finishing (or even continuing) any of them at any point.

xXx

Chapter 1: This chapter – table of contents

Chapter 2: _Children of Hecate_ (No Snape AU) Summary

Chapter 3-7: _Children of Hecate_

Chapter 8: _An Intermediate Divergence_ (Severitis AU) Summary

Chapter 9-13: _An Intermediate Divergence_

Chapter 14: Deleted Scenes from _An Intermediate Divergence_

Chapter 15: _The Rise of the Dark Lady Black_ (Fem!Tom AU; Adopted by the House of Black AU) Summary

Chapter 16-17: _The Rise of the Dark Lady Black_

Chapter 18: _In Love with Your Carnage_ (10 Things I Hate About You, the Death Eater Version) Summary

Chapter 19-23: _In Love with Your Carnage_

Chapter 24: _The East Wind Rises_ (Recursive AU of Between Lives; Sherlock Crossover) Summary

Chapter 25-31: _The East Wind Rises_

Chapter 32: _Nineteen Years Before_ (CanonDH!Ginny Time Travel AU, First War) Summary

Chapter 33-37: _Nineteen Years Before_

Chapter 38: _Jamie Potter and Harmony Granger in the Adventure of the Magical Mindswap; Regulus Black and the Redemption of the Darkest House_ (Harry/Hermione Mindswap AU) Summary

Chapter 39-42: _The Adventure of the Magical Mindswap_

Chapter 43: _Redemption of the Darkest House_

Chapter 44: _Back in Black_ (MP3!Hermione Time Travel AU, Marauders' Era; Adopted by the House of Black AU) Summary

Chapter 45: _Back in Black_

Chapter 46: _What Happened at Hogwarts_ (Canon-compliant(-ish) Ginny  & Snape POV DH) Summary

Chapter 47: _What Happened at Hogwarts_

Chapter 48: _Call Back the Dead_ (Next-Gen Master of Death) Summary

Chapter 49: _Call Back the Dead_


	2. Children of Hecate Summary

**Children of Hecate**

 _The No Snape AU_ outlined in 'Dreams of Hades.' For those of you who haven't read that:

This AU takes place in a world like Mary Potter, but where Eileen Prince left Tobias Snape and threw herself on the mercy of her family before moving to the continent and taking young Severus with her. Lily, James, and Sirius had a triad relationship for a while, and due to an unfortunate lapse of control on Beltane 1979, Lily ended up pregnant by both of them. Fraternal twins Victoria Anne (Potter-Black) Evans and James Henry (Black-Potter) Evans were born in early February of 1980. The prophecy Dumbledore received from Trelawney was not, in fact, anything to do with a boy born in July, but instead spoke of a 'great hero of wizards' who would be 'forced to yield in order to triumph.' It was not overheard by anyone. Dumbledore fulfilled it himself by appealing to the ICW to resolve the problems in Magical Britain when the Order finally sustained too many losses to keep going in the spring of 1982.

The Peacekeepers descended upon the beleaguered nation with an efficiency which had not been seen on either side since 1978. They captured well over half of the Death Eaters and the Dark Lord himself. The ringleaders were deported to Nurmengard, to live out their lives like muggles. Many of the Second Circle were sent to Azkaban. Narcissa still managed to save her husband and a few of his closest associates with her well-planned Imperius Defense, though not so many as in 'canon' (ie, the background I wrote for Mary Potter).

Also unlike in canon, the Light was not exempt from the ICW War Crimes Tribunals. Dumbledore was ordered to step down from his position in the ICW for the actions he encouraged in the war, but he retained enough power to shield those whom he chose to protect. Lily was one of them. She had committed the most obvious and egregious crimes on the Light side of the battlefield. The others might have used the Killing Curse in the heat of the moment, and several of their healers had turned to ritual when their charms were not sufficient, but Lily had invoked a goddess and raised the dead on the battlefield. There were those who thought her too dangerous to live, with that kind of power to hand, and those who thought her blatant disregard for the Statute deserved punishment regardless of her reasons.

She threw herself on Dumbledore's mercy, much as Severus did in canon, and they negotiated a deal: her loyal service to him, personally, in exchange for his protection. So Dumbledore had stood as guarantor of her actions, and taken her off to Hogwarts. Her children were raised by Potter and Black, while Lily became the general factorum of the Castle in Severus' place. She officially teaches an elective in Healing, though her curriculum overlaps heavily with Potions and Charms, and the second term of every year is devoted to 'Preventative Measures' which is, more or less, Defense (though that position still takes its yearly sacrifice). Over the course of two years, she worked her way into Dumbledore's good graces and convinced him to revive the position of the Disciplinary Agent, which had been vacant since John McKinnon's retirement.

By 1986 she had more or less taken over the leadership of Slytherin House under the pretense of keeping the peace within the school. In 1989, this state of affairs was declared official, as Horace Slughorn finally retired and the replacement Potions professor was a former Hufflepuff. Lily was unanimously elected as the most Slytherin member of the staff, including the newly-hired Aurora Sinistra, who was actually an alumna of that House.

In 1991, Lily's children come to Hogwarts, and shenanigans ensue as they deal with firstie drama, coming to terms with their absentee mother's new presence in their lives, and the fact that there is, for some unspecified reason, an obstacle course in the dungeons which may or may not contain the fabled Philosopher's Stone. (As it turns out, the stone was never meant to be hidden from Voldemort in 'canon,' but from a near-legendary thief called the Shadow, whom Flamel had heard was targeting it.)

Currently written through the Sorting. Five chapters; about 19,500 words.


	3. COH1: End of an Era

The sun rose unusually warm and bright for the first of September, illuminating first the tops of the trees that surrounded the small valley, then touching, ever so gently, the western slope, advancing slowly but inevitably across the ground until its progress was interrupted by the slate tiles and white-washed walls of a rather incongruously placed Welsh country house. It found the windows of a pair of bedrooms, as it did every morning, filtering through sheer curtains to shine brightly into the beds of two children and a dog in one, and a single man in the other.

The man was a violent sleeper. When the sun found him, he was inevitably locked in a slow but furious battle with serpentine sheets and blankets. He woke slowly, but completely, becoming aware of the light in his room and the discomfort of the sheets coiled around his limbs even before he opened his eyes, then his distinct need to use the loo, and the fact that his dark, perennially messy hair was uncomfortably greasy. The desire to take a shower inevitably led him to thinking about all the many things that needed doing on any particular day, and by the time he stretched and roused himself, he was ready and eager to get to work.

The children – a boy and a girl, eleven-year-old twins, both pale and thin, with chin-length, tangled black curls and sleeping expressions which belied the mischief of which they were capable when awake – had fallen asleep in the same bed (again), and now lay back to back, arms draped over their faces against the intrusion of the light. By habit they rose as late as they could get away with, the girl slow and reluctant to rise, but fully awake once she was on her feet, and her brother only too willing to roll over and go back to sleep every time he was startled into hateful consciousness by a sudden noise or change in the light. Normally it fell to the children's dad to drag them out of bed – often with the challenge of a race to claim the downstairs bathroom – but he was hardly more eager to rise than they, and all three of them had stayed up far too late the night before, discussing the adventure that was scheduled to begin that very morning. The twins had still been awake when the enormous black dog who was now curled up on the other bed with his head tucked into his side, similarly avoiding the sun, had come to check on them at midnight, and it had taken some time afterward for him to soothe their fears enough that they had fallen asleep.

Of all their parents, Sirius Black, otherwise known as 'Dad,' was their favorite. Their absent mother, Lily Evans, known only through letters and the occasional Christmas visit, was no competition at all. Their father, James Potter, might have given Dad a run for his money if he still acted like the mischievous teenager their dad told stories about, rather than the grown-up and responsible Senior Auror he had become. As it was, their dad was by far the most fun. He had been an auror, too, once, in the War, but when it ended, he had taken a job at a dueling gym, and then started working as a private dueling and defense tutor. He was the parent who taught them how to throw hexes and knives, took them exploring in Muggle London, and could make anything sound like an adventure, even chores. He was also the one who let Victoria plait daisies into his hair and played pirates with Jimmy, and the one who could be counted upon to reassure them that talking to snakes in the garden didn't make them evil (as their father's initial overreaction had implied) and that for all her faults, their mother was not some kind of horrid monster who would make their seven years at Hogwarts a misery.

That had been the subject of most of their discussion the night before, along with their concerns about what House they should try to get into. The two points were not entirely unrelated. All of their parents were in Gryffindor, but their mother was mildly infamous for (among other things) taking over the position of Head of Slytherin two years before. If everything they had heard about the four houses was true, Victoria was probably supposed to be a Gryffindor, and Jimmy a Slytherin. But Jimmy didn't like the idea of being sorted into their estranged mother's House, and Victoria didn't fancy seven years rooming with 'the Noble-minded and brave,' who sounded like total sticks in the mud, even if both Dad and Father claimed that Gryffindors had the most fun. And of course, neither of them could bear the thought of being separated from the other, and both were afraid that they wouldn't have a choice.

The sound of the shower on the other side of the wall from her brother's bed drew a groan from the half-conscious Victoria. "You should'a come to my bed," she yawned.

When Jimmy didn't respond, she pinched him. He yelped, scrambling away from her and falling onto the floor. Their dad popped back into human form at the disturbance, trying to leap to the defense of his son, but had obviously forgot where he had finally fallen asleep, and rolled _off_ the bed instead of out of it, which left him in the same position. They moaned and rubbed at their respective wounds, scowling identically. Victoria giggled.

Though it was a rather well-kept secret outside of the family which of them was the blood heir to which house (Potter or Black), she thought it was only too obvious that Father (James) was her sire, and Dad (Sirius) was Jimmy's.

"Not _funny_ , Vica!" her brother objected, recovering from his heinous injury well enough to throw himself back onto the bed and attack her in return. She squealed and attempted to escape, but their dad cut her off, falling on both children with a bear-like roar and tickling them until they were laughing too hard to breathe.

When they were incapacitated to his satisfaction, he stood with a self-satisfied smirk and bounded for the door.

The twins met each other's eyes for a split-second before realization struck: "He's headed for –" Victoria began as Jimmy shouted, "LOO! DAD!" They chased him down the stairs, but it was too late: the door to the second bathroom slammed just as they rounded the corner. His barking laugh followed them back down the corridor to the kitchen, where Azzie, the house elf of Brecon Dell Cottage, was pulling muffins from the oven.

She tutted when she saw them, shaking her head at their still-tousled selves. "Azzie sees young master and young mistress being too slow to beat Master Sirius to the bathing-room _again_ ," she teased them, shooing them through into the dining room and following with plates.

"He tickled us so bad we couldn't _move_ ," Victoria defended their early appearance.

"Yeah," Jimmy confirmed. "It wasn't _our_ fault!"

The elf gave them a skeptical look. "Is not being the young master and young mistress's fault ever, it seems." She counted off instances on her long, skinny fingers: "Bound to beds, clothes too small, windows charmed for to be dark… and this only in the past week."

Jimmy nodded fervently. "Definitely not our fault."

"And what about blue hair, stolen trousers, and all Master James' pants switched with ladies'?"

Both children giggled at the memory of their father trying to get dressed, and finding only lace and silk in his under-clothes drawer. "They just transfigured new trousers, and Dad liked the blue hair," Victoria defended their pranks.

Her brother nodded again. "And he even helped with the pants! _So_ not our fault!"

"What wasn't your fault?" their father asked, shrugging his outer robes off at the doorway and hanging them on a peg.

"Being so early to breakfast," Jimmy explained.

" _Again_ ," Victoria added.

Father laughed. "Sirius beat you to the loo again? Well, run and use the upstairs', and you can shower after breakfast."

"I'm first," Victoria called, but Jimmy was closer to the door, and he took off running, completely ignoring her complaints behind him. She shoved him when he re-emerged from the bathroom. "I _called_ it, twerp!"

"Since when does that matter?" he asked, elbowing her back. She tried to mess up his hair (even more – he hadn't brushed it), but he ducked away and laughed. "Hurry up, or I'll eat all the chocolate chips, too!" he threatened, heading back toward the stairs.

When breakfast and showers were finally accomplished, and the children's Hogwarts trunks triple-checked, charmed weightless, shrunken, and tucked in the appropriate pockets, the family of four took to the skies over their cleverly warded little valley for one last flight before heading to the train station. Jimmy and their father started whacking a Quaffle around with a pair of beater's bats, but Victoria preferred just flying without the complications of making it a sport. It helped her think and relax, and she needed that, today of all days.

"Sickle for your thoughts, poppet," her dad offered, swooping up to her after a few minutes. She took a moment to evaluate his expression before she answered. He looked a little concerned, and very sincere.

She sighed. "It's just…"

"Houses, still?" he guessed. "Or Lily? Or both?"

"Mostly Lily, I guess," she admitted. "I know you said she's not a bad person, and it's not all her fault she hasn't been around like, ever, and she'll make sure not to embarrass us, and treat us like anyone else, but…"

"But what, Vica?" There was a smile hovering around the edges of his serious expression. He never could keep a straight face very long.

"But what if she doesn't _like_ us – or what if we don't like _her_?!"

Sure enough, her dad smiled at that, and opened his arms to invite her into a mid-air hug. "Aw, Vic," he muttered into her hair. "She won't be able to help but love you. Even if she doesn't really know how to show it. And you'll get on with her just fine. It's a rare person that doesn't like Lily Evans."

"Father doesn't," Victoria pointed out, watching him grin as he only ever did when he was in the air, and bat the Quaffle back to Jimmy.

"That's because Lily broke his heart, poppet. He still loves her, you know, but the War was hard on all of us, and after it ended, well… things got even more complicated."

"You wanted Father and he wanted you, and Lily wanted to be a teacher?"

The wizard laughed. "More like I wanted James, James wanted to settle down and be one big happy family, and Lily… Lily didn't really get a whole lot of choice. She couldn't have stayed with us if she wanted to."

"You always _say_ that _,_ " Victoria complained, "but you never say _why_!"

"I know," he shrugged. "Your father and I decided when you and Jimmy were about three that we weren't going to tell you until you were old enough to understand."

The young witch pouted. She had heard _that_ before, too. The age they had decided on was thirteen, which wasn't for another two and a half years. "Maybe I'll just go ask _Lily_ , then," she challenged him.

The wizard grinned. "Make sure you get a photo of her face when you do."

" _Daaad_ ," she whined, but before she could try again to wheedle any more information about her mother from him, there was a sound like a klaxon from the house: the reminder that they had to be at the station in half an hour to catch the train.

"Go on, Vic. See if you can beat Jimmy back to the shed," he teased. She stuck her tongue out at him and dropped like a stone. Jimmy always beat her when they were running, but she was _much_ faster in the air.

"Come on!" she shouted as soon as she touched down, mocking the obsessive punctuality which had led Father to set the alarm-klaxon in the first place. "We're gonna be _late_." She laughed as first her father, then Jimmy and Dad joined her.

Jimmy was asking their dad about a certain school rule that he had been trying to get around ever since their letters had arrived: "So if we can get, say, a _second_ -year to hold onto them for us…"

Their dad laughed, even as their father groaned and muttered, "Not this again."

"Sure, kit. I'll send it to whoever you want – just make sure you pick someone who doesn't mind you constantly borrowing 'their' broom."

"Really, Pads?" Father asked, rolling his eyes.

Dad reached out to throw an arm around Father's shoulders, waving the other in his usual animated fashion. "C'mon, Jamie – don't you remember being eleven, off on your first real adventure, all excited to learn to be the greatest sorcerer since Merlin himself? Live a little!" He ended by ruffling Father's already-windswept hair.

Father rolled his eyes again, though he smiled nostalgically at Dad. "We'll discuss it and write you," he informed Jimmy.

"Bugger," he cursed. "That always means 'no!'"

"Not _always_ ," Father defended himself. "And watch your language!"

Everyone ignored the comment about the swearing, even Dad. "It kinda does, actually, Senior Auror Stuffy-Pants." (Father made a face at the name.) "But this conversation really _will_ have to wait, unless you scamps want to risk not having anywhere to sit…"

Victoria yelped. "Then what are we waiting for? Move it, boys!"

"Susan and Neville said they'd save us seats," Jimmy reminded her. "And you _know_ Madam Bones is always early to _everything_."

It was true that Madam Bones, the guardian of their best friends, was always early to everything, and she really didn't doubt that Susan would save her a seat, but… "Still, we _should_ get going…" Victoria started heading for the house, ignoring her brother's comment to the effect that they were _apparating_ , and so could leave five minutes before the train and still make it with time to spare.

They arrived just as the ten-minute warning whistle blew, a plume of purple smoke belching from the scarlet engine. Mrs. Weasley, an old friend of Father's, waved as she nudged the last of her sons onto the train and shouted something indistinguishable over the noise of the crowd. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, the latter of whom was their dad's cousin, had obviously spotted them as well, but only sneered. Victoria nudged Jimmy and nodded in their direction. His eyes lit up with unholy glee and he gave their dad only the faintest warning tug on his sleeve before sprinting off to hug the pureblood ice queen around the middle.

"Cousin _Cissy_! How _are_ you, it's been _so long_!" he shouted, in an obvious, but no less effective, attempt to gain the attention of everyone within hearing range. Granted, that wasn't so far, with the train making all sorts of sounds and everyone talking at once, but enough people stopped and stared that Narcissa flushed beet red. She tried to subtly push him away, but he clung to her, ensuring that her dress robes would be wrinkled badly enough to require a straightening charm. "Aren't you glad to see your most _favorite_ nephew in the _whole world?_!" Jimmy enthused. His family tried with various degrees of success to hide their amusement. Dad was cracking up, and Father _snorted_ as he failed to hold in his laughter.

Victoria decided to get in on the action, skipping over as though she hadn't a care in the world. She made a proper curtsey to Lord Malfoy before throwing herself on Narcissa as well. "Hi, Cissy! Did darling Draco save us a seat? We have _so much_ to catch up on! We haven't seen him since the birthday party with the flying pudding fight, after all… Does Draco still want to be a werewolf one day?"

"No, Vica, you're thinking of Zabini. _Draco_ wants to be a _dragon_ when he grows up, isn't that right? He was telling us how he was _sure_ that would be his animagus form because dad's name is Sirius and he turns into a dog…"

" _Lucius_ ," Narcissa hissed, obviously trying not to look as panicked and horrified as she very clearly was. "Get them _off_ of me!"

The pureblood glared helplessly at them. "Unhand my wife, you hooligans!" he whisper-yelled, obviously trying not to make an even bigger scene.

"Un _hand_ her?" Jimmy shouted.

"But we've _missed_ her!" Victoria protested.

"What kind of sick man asks a couple of children to take off his wife's _hands_?!" Jimmy asked, with the appalled expression she knew he practiced in front of the mirror at home.

Lucius was now nearly as red as Narcissa, and clearly at as much of a loss. He seemed torn between drawing his wand and disapparating on the spot, leaving his increasingly angry wife to her own fate. Fortunately, Auror Potter seemed to realize that as well, because he came strolling out of the crowd at that moment, trailing his still-giggling best friend in his wake.

"James Henry! Victoria Anne! Say goodbye to your cousin, _now."_

Both Evans children knew better than to mess with their father when he pulled out that tone – the one Dad called the Voice of Command. By the time he added, "The train is going to leave without you if you don't hurry!" they had already let go of the furious witch, taken two steps back, and bowed in concert.

"Goodbye, Cousin Cissy," they recited obediently, in their most pleasant, socially-proper voices. They had been told on more than one occasion that this act was very disconcerting, so of course they had worked to perfect it over the years.

They were rewarded with matching Malfoy expressions of disbelief and confusion before they turned to hug their parents and make a run for the train, which was, indeed, making noises as though it was about to start moving. They scrambled aboard, lingering in the doorway to shout their love to the two wizards who had followed them more sedately across the platform.

"You've got your wands?" their father checked. They nodded. "Trunks?"

"Still shrunk," Jimmy said, patting his pocket as Victoria checked her own. She nodded.

"We haven't got time to un-shrink them and get them loaded now," Father muttered.

" _Relax_ , Jamie," their dad advised him. "Just put them at the end of your beds, guys. They'll un-shrink overnight."

"Or old Minnie will give them detention before classes even start for arriving out of uniform."

Dad made a _psht_ sound. "Fine, I'll call ahead and have Lily meet them in Hogsmeade and get everything where it needs to go. How's that? Everyone happy? Good? Good. Because you don't have a choice."

They really didn't, because the train was starting to move, and a prefect was standing behind the kids, urging them to close the door and find a seat.

"'Bye Dad! Goodbye Father! We'll miss you!" the twins chorused at the men who were now walking alongside the train.

"Us too," their dad shouted.

"Love you!" Father added.

Dad broke into a jog to keep up. "Write to us!"

"We will!" Victoria laughed.

"Tell us about your sorting!"

" _Daaad_ , you're _embarrassing us_!" Jimmy whined.

The man did a dramatic double-take at the hypocrisy of that complaint, given Jimmy's attack on the Malfoys, and promptly tripped over an abandoned trolley. The kids laughed as he rolled to his feet and glared at the offending vehicle, then waved. The last they saw of the station was their father approaching, shaking his head at his co-parent's slapstick antics, even as he waved as well. Then the train rounded a corner, and everything familiar was gone: Hogwarts, and their mother, were only eight short hours away.


	4. COH2: The Status Quo

Lily Evans was not the sort of person most people imagined when they thought of the Head of Slytherin.

Of course, most people probably still imagined Horace Slughorn, who had held the post from 1928 all the way through to 1989.

On the most superficial level, it would be difficult to find anyone who was less like Slughorn than the short, green-eyed red-head. She taught in practical healer's robes and sensibly low-heeled boots, and though she wasn't quite as slim anymore as she once was, no one had ever compared her to an overstuffed striped sofa. Her views on what it meant to be Slytherin and her political agenda were quite different from the old wizard's as well. Some of that was due to the fact that she was about fifty-five years younger than the former head of House, having just turned thirty-one. Some of it was almost certainly due to the fact that she had been a Gryffindor in school. Even more of it was likely due to the fact that she was muggle-raised, and had therefore fought for the Light in the War.

Not that she was a light _witch_. If anything, she considered herself Ambivalent: dedicated to both poles of magic equally… though she had admittedly made her reputation as more of a dark sorceress during and after the War. Slughorn's reputation, on the other hand, was as an apolitical facilitator of relationships and encourager of the advancement of the 'right' (richest and best-connected) people – an attitude which he had fostered in his Slytherins since he had taken over the House, and which had therefore shaped the entire nepotistic, graft-riddled organization that was the Ministry of Magic for well on half a century.

Unlike Slughorn, Lily thought that there was something hollow about trading on one's family name and flattering one's way into unearned authority. That was probably the muggleborn in her talking: no one knew more about pulling oneself up by one's boot-straps than a girl who had learned about Magical Britain when she was eleven, and spent the next ten years desperately trying to learn enough magic to keep herself and her friends alive in the middle of a war where her existence (and that of those like her) was the main source of contention. In her view, ambition was best served by Hufflepuff work ethic, Ravenclaw open-mindedness, and Gryffindor boldness. The world had seen how far deception and the pursuit of power had gotten her in 1982: chained to the prisoner's seat as the courts decided her fate. It was true that the deal she had struck to win free had been ruthless and cunning, but it had depended on charm, honesty, and good will and intent (and not a little bit of luck) to succeed, rather than carefully controlled, well-orchestrated plans and politics and blackmail, which was the popular interpretation of the 'Slytherin' approach.

Really, she didn't think there had been much to recommend her as Head of Slytherin, aside from the fact that nobody really doubted she could do the job. The same could not be said for the rest of the staff. Slughorn had rather let the House take care of itself in the last two decades of his tenure, the lazy old bastard. As might be expected when the students with the best connections make the rules with little to no adult oversight, the Death Eaters had found Slytherin House a prime recruiting ground, and it had been utter chaos after the social upheaval at the end of the War. Lily had begun the process of taming the Snake Pit from her previous position as the Inter-House Disciplinary Mediator, and when Slughorn finally elected to retire, her fellow staff members had obviously seen no reason that she should not continue to do so from a position of greater authority (her history and apparent general unsuitability notwithstanding). And the Hat _had_ confirmed her as a suitable candidate.

Dumbledore's eyes had twinkled madly when he introduced this decision at the ratification meeting of the Board, suggesting that the time had come for a change of pace, and assuring the shocked Board Members that she had his full confidence.

Of course she did. She was bound to his service by a magical contract, his _paramenein_ : a bond-slave, in essence. In exchange he stood as her _custos_ : guard, warden, and guarantor of her good behavior. Much as the terms under which she had proposed this arrangement and the subsequent stripping of her citizen status rankled, the arrangement itself was the only thing that had kept her out of Azkaban or Nurmengard when the International Confederation learned what she had done. If she served loyally and faithfully, making every effort to oblige him and proving her good will and reformed character, the War Crimes Tribunal had allowed that her _custos_ might petition to relax the terms of her sentence after twenty years from what more or less amounted to 'house arrest' to 'parole.'

Really, she had gotten off lightly: if they hadn't been in a state of war when she committed her 'crimes,' and her side hadn't won, she probably would have been chucked through the Veil for some of the stunts she had pulled. Well, if He Who Failed French had won, she probably would have been conscripted by the Death Eaters, actually, because _they_ weren't too timid to find a use for ritualists, but that was beside the point. In any case, she was very lucky to have avoided a prison sentence, even with the leniency shown to the Light warriors when they were brought before the Tribunal.

In the meanwhile, however, she now had to deal with the day-to-day and year-to-year minutia of running Slytherin, along with the scheming, spying, and manipulating necessary to keep the various factions within the House in check, and the usual stresses of teaching the Healing elective and acting as Dumbledore's girl Friday. At least she didn't have to deal with Inter-House issues, anymore: the job of Disciplinary Mediator had gone to Aurora Sinistra, the youngest member of the faculty and only Slytherin alumna, who had hired in the year before Lily was promoted.

Well, they _said_ it was a promotion.

Mostly it was a lot more absolutely thankless work. Two years had not been enough for the students to become accustomed to her way of doing things, and unfortunately, she didn't really expect it to get any easier for another year or three.

She collapsed onto a sofa in her (ridiculously verdant) Common Room, conjuring a glass for herself and filling it with a quick _aguamenti_. She had just finished the annual pre-move-in room-check, a process which involved breaking and removing all the illegal wards her students had placed on their rooms over the course of the previous year, examining the belongings they had left behind for contraband (which she confiscated for analysis and, in the case of the 20-year-old bottle of Irish muggle whisky hidden in James Warren's sock drawer, drinking), and leaving detention slips on the pillows of the worst offenders.

This was the third year in a row that a significant portion of the upperclassmen were returning to a month's detentions for trying to ward their Head of House out of their rooms along with the other students; stocking illegal potions, alcohol or muggle drugs (where Ananda Grey had managed to come across an entire envelope of LSD, Lily had no idea); having possession of restricted or banned literature and illegal ritual paraphernalia (Adelaide Pierce was a naughty girl indeed, bringing to school not only a ceremonial athame, but one finished with human bone instead of dragon or even goblin); and in one case, abandoning an unstable magical experiment with the potential to destroy half the dorms half-way through (Sherrinford Pierce, Adelaide's younger brother, and a Ravenclaw miss-sort if ever she had seen one).

One would hope that Slytherins were, in general, intelligent enough _not_ to leave blatantly illegal materials lying around when they _knew_ she was going to search their rooms, but they had youthful arrogance in common with her own former housemates, and somehow never suspected that their super-secret hiding spaces behind headboards and in the magically expanded and disillusioned hat-boxes shoved into the back of wardrobes would _ever_ be discovered.

 _Idiots_.

Still, it could be worse. She could be Head of Ravenclaw. Filius had asked for her assistance on more than one occasion, when it came to cleaning out _their_ dorms of a summer, and it was always a nightmare. She was constantly surprised that there had only one major, tower-damaging explosion from that House since the beginning of her tenure at the school.

She couldn't help but hope that her kids were sorted anywhere else, purely for their own safety.

Of course, she rather hoped that they would manage, against the odds, to both be sorted into her new clutch of Snakes. It would be for the best, for the sake of avoiding appearances of favoritism (and probably for their popularity), if they weren't, but she was selfish enough to want to see and interact with them as much as possible, since her movements outside of the Castle had been so limited throughout their childhood, and her contact with them even more so. Since her arrest at the end of the War, she had only seen them in person a handful of times, mostly over Christmas. (She would have preferred Yule or Samhain, of course, but given the nature of her crimes, she was _never_ allowed off the Grounds on those holidays, and even her participation in the students' observations was supervised.)

She was just considering whether Gryffindor or Hufflepuff would be better for Jimmy and Victoria, based on what she knew of them from their brief meetings, even briefer letters, and the reports Sirius had given her over the years, when the shrunken, enchanted mirror she wore as a locket pulsed with warmth against her skin. She answered it at once, enlarging it to the size of a compact, and opening it to see a pair of familiar, grinning, silver-grey eyes.

"Hey, Lils!" he said brightly, his tone immediately assuring her that nothing serious was wrong.

"Paddy! I was just thinking of you. Long time, no see," she smiled back. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Can't I just want to see your pretty face? Hear your dulcet tones?"

Lily chuckled. "Incorrigible as you are, you never call me just to flirt. What's up?"

"Well, you see, the thing is… we arrived to the train a bit late this morning, and didn't have a chance to get the kids' trunks un-shrunken and stowed away, so James and I were wondering," there was an incoherent mumble from somewhere outside the range of the detection charms, and Sirius corrected himself: "Fine, _I_ was wondering, if you might be able to meet the train and un-shrink the kids' trunks so they can get changed and Minnie won't give them a week's detention for showing up out of uniform."

Lily just blinked at him for a long moment. "Sirius Black, you are still the most irresponsible – how did you cut it _that close_?!"

He snorted. "We got there in plenty of time, but then Jimmy ran off and got side-tracked, and Vic decided to get in on the fun, and by the time James got his grown-up act together well enough to get the show back on the road, we were running rather late."

"And I suppose you were just an innocent bystander in all this," she suggested, raising an unimpressed eyebrow at the man.

He rolled his eyes. "Anything I could have done would have made it exponentially worse, believe me."

She sighed. "Fine. I'll get Dumbledore to let me go collect the firsties. Even he wouldn't force a mother to see her children for the first time in three years from the High Table at the Sorting, and he still owes me." She had missed her last scheduled visit due to an unfortunately timed time-turner accident, and because she couldn't even explain what she had been doing that was so important that she hadn't had the time for her own children, James had refused to re-schedule. He seemed to think it was better if she never saw them at all, rather than chance getting their hopes up and then having to disappoint them.

Then again, he also seemed to think it was better if they never had any interaction with her, period. He made a point of supervising their visits, and it was written all over him that he thought her a dangerous influence, and one which he wanted to keep as far from his children as possible.

Their break-up, in the wake of her trial, had been a nasty one. He hadn't known the half of what she had got up to working in the Safehouses. Oh, he had known about the _big_ things, the Major Workings she had done in front of everyone, to turn the tide of a battle when all hope seemed lost if she did nothing. But he hadn't known about the ritual healing or the bio-Alchemy or her correspondence grimoire and the reports she had exchanged with an Applied Metaphysics researcher at Miskatonic. He had known she had an interest in soul magic – he had given her access to the Potter-Peverell Library, for God's sake! – but he hadn't realized that she had been working on ways to _use_ that knowledge. The ICW Investigators had broken the cipher spells on her private journals, and thrown everything she had worked on since the age of fifteen in front of the courts, and her lovers: every detail of her self-experimentation with blood magic and runic casting; every twisted, terrible, beautiful corruption of healing charms she had crafted to kill; every thought on the Powers and the details of her relationships with them.

Sirius had understood, both her obsession with the most primal, most dangerous of magics, and why she had never mentioned it to him (the reformed scion of the Darkest house) or to James (who had always been of the Light, through and through).

James had not.

He could not find it in himself to maintain a relationship with a witch he considered dark, even though he had loved her since they were eleven years old. Even though she was the mother of his children.

When she had been stripped of her citizen status and rights as a legal entity, custody of her children had been turned over to their fathers: it was only through Sirius' intervention that James had been convinced to let her write, and see them at all, let alone to send them to Hogwarts. The terms of the latter accommodation had been that she communicate with them only by means he approved (only letters, which she was sure he read – she was fairly certain that he worried she would try to turn them against him if she was allowed to speak to them directly and privately, as with Sirius' mirror), and all visits were to be supervised at his convenience. He had to be terrified – not only were they out of his protection for the first time in years, but they were nearly within her reach, and he had built her up in his mind as being as evil as the Morrigan herself.

"Lily? Lily? Hellflower!"

"Huh?" she startled, brought out of her thoughts by Sirius's voice.

"Geez, Lils. You're a million miles away."

"Just thinking. Sorry."

"Yeah, well, I should get going. But call tonight and let us know where the kids end up." He was practically vibrating with excitement.

She laughed. "Of course. Should be around eleven – I have to lay down the law for Slytherin before I'll get any privacy."

"Sounds good. I'll be waiting!" She was sure he would. If she didn't call by eleven, he would probably call her at two minutes past.

Speaking of the time… "Gods and Powers, I need to be up in Dumbledore's office in five minutes. Later, Pads!" She leapt from the couch, headed for the Slytherin back-door that opened nearest to the Headmaster's tower.

"Go, go! And don't forget, about the –"

"Trunks, robes, un-shrinking. Yes, I'll take care of it, you irresponsible bastard! Say 'hi' to Jamie for me," she added sincerely. Their relationship had been less than cordial for years, but she couldn't really hold onto her resentment toward him and his visitation restrictions when she would soon be able to invite the kids to tea every weekend if she liked.

Sirius looked slightly startled, but he said, "Will do. _Ciao_ , _cara_!"

She snapped the case closed, shrinking it back to medallion-size as she reached the open corridors.

She was slightly out of breath, but exactly on time when she reached the statute that guarded Dumbledore's staircase. "Licorice wands," she panted, and it hopped aside to allow her access to the spiral stair. She took the precious seconds of its ascent to compose herself.

"Ah, Lily, my dear, do come in," the old man called before she could knock.

"Hello, Albus. You wanted to see me?"

"I did indeed! Sit down, dear girl. Oh, my – you look rather flushed. Are you quite alright? Would you like a lemon drop?"

Lily rolled her eyes. That was simply what six flights of stairs _did_ to a person. "No thank you. I'm fine, Albus. What's up?"

"Well, there are several matters I wished to discuss. First of all, I've reviewed the plan you proposed for your section of the Gauntlet protecting the stone." He looked over his spectacles with a disappointed little frown.

"And?" the witch prompted. The room she had proposed was ancient Palmyrene trap enchanted to produce multi-sensory illusions in response to the intent of anyone who entered it. It could project anything from an endless plane to a shifting labyrinth of hallways to a boggart-like simulation of one's greatest fears (though in that case the enchanting was far more complicated). So long as the intruder wished to advance, the illusions would befuddle them. As soon as they wished to retreat, the way back would become clear.

" _And_ , do you not feel that a Zenobian Box might be just a _little_ advanced for this particular venture?"

She didn't, particularly. The secret to defeating the trap was to disable the senses affected. In the version of the Box that she had proposed, the intruders would need to blind themselves and fly or levitate to find the edges of the space, as it projected the illusion of movement based on walking, the floor shifting with each step to bring one back to the same spot. After that it was a relatively simple matter of feeling one's way through the doorway to advance. Difficult, possibly slightly dangerous, depending on the spells the intruders used for levitation, but not _too_ advanced for most NEWT students to figure out, after a scouting trip and a few hours in the library.

"That depends. Do you still plan on actually hiding the Flamels' Stone at the end of it? Because if so, I'd say the Antlion Oasis is too _easy_ a variation."

"Lily, my dear, we've been over this. You were _there_ when Nicholas discussed his concerns about the stone's safety. The rumors that the Shadow is seeking it…"

"Yes, I know. And if it's true that the Shadow is a vampire, a Zenobian Box _might_ slow him? Her? Them, anyway, enough to be captured, but I still think you'd be best served letting me _implant_ it for you, or at the very least keeping it up here under a pile of wards."

" _Ah_ , but the Gauntlet is not only a challenge for the would-be thief. I seem to recall you enjoyed participating in it yourself your seventh year. And the true defense of the stone will not be the Gauntlet itself. _That_ will be a Carolline Concealment, secure from the average thief, and doubly so from the attempts of a vampire."

The witch sighed. A Carolline Concealment (hiding an object 'through the looking glass' – or rather, in a pocket-dimension tied to a mirror until certain conditions were met) was a very specifically targeted vanishing/conjuration enchantment triggered by an intent-based charm. Presumably the mirror itself would play a part in the intent-recognition, if it was doubly safe from vampires. "Very well. I still think that my sixth and seventh-years will be able to figure out the Box, though, with a bit of research. And some of them are bound to logic out what's happening. Perhaps you could assign each of us a year-level to challenge, and place them in order: use the Gauntlet to see which students are ahead of their peers, you know?"

The old wizard stroked his long beard. "Hmmm… do you know, I think that's an excellent idea. Very well. I shall look at the proposed challenges, and see what adjustments we might request. I hope you know you have just volunteered to assist with those adjustments, my dear." His eyes twinkled with mirth.

"Why Albus," Lily drawled. "When have I _ever_ declined to assist when requested?"

He chortled. "Quite so, quite so. Then. What else was there? You are prepared for the start of term?"

"Everything is ready for my first month of classes. The monitoring charms have been in place on Quirinus' chambers for weeks. I just finished the Slytherin room-checks…"

"Anything I ought to be aware of turn up in the room-checks?"

Lily sighed and handed over a list. She hated turning her students in for their illegal possessions, but not enough to risk taking the fall if Dumbledore realized she was protecting them. "I would appreciate it if you just let me leave it at confiscations and detentions," she said as blue eyes skimmed down the parchment. "They'll never come to respect me if they think I'm constantly running off and squealing on them to a higher authority," she pointed out, subtly reminding him that his end-game was a pacified Slytherin, not sending students to Azkaban for having possession of Class V non-tradable ritual materials.

"Have you given any more thought to the idea of an extra-curricular Practical Defense club?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

She winced slightly. But if that was the price of her autonomy within Slytherin… "I have twelve free hours a week, compared to the core professors, but I'd really like to keep at least half of those for dealing with emergencies and, you know, typical mayhem. I could knock together a general curriculum along the lines of Preventative Measures, but you _know_ I'm not much of a duelist… it may not end up being what you're looking for. And the logistics are a bit rubbish. I'd have to at least try to do a couple of sections so that everyone could attend at least one… maybe with multiple levels?"

"You were the one who wanted to try to find a way around that pesky Defense curse, Miss Evans," Dumbledore twinkled.

"I did at that," she admitted ruefully. Teach her to suggest good ideas. What did it get her? More work.

"I think three levels, with two sections each should suffice. I shall reserve the Great Hall for you during the hours of seven to nine, Monday through Saturday."

 _Damn._ So much for keeping a few free hours. She kept her disappointment from her face, though. "And Slytherin?"

"Oh, I think you've amply demonstrated your ability to make the correct judgments on enough decisions recently that I have no doubts about the management of your students and their adherence to the school rules. Though I _do_ expect all confiscated items to be disposed of properly and in a timely manner. And you will keep me apprised of the results of your inspections – annual and spot – as well as the punishments you hand out. I shall require reports, for the sake of accountability and precedent."

"I would expect _nothing_ less," she said drily, with a smile to take the sting out of it.

"Quite right," he chortled again. "The world does, after all, run on parchment. I shudder to think what I would do had I not a single report to read on a given day. My poor heart might not be able to stand the shock."

She snorted with laughter at that image. "And in World News today, the Supreme Mugwump has expired after an acute case of stress _relief_?"

"Indeed, indeed," the old man murmured, sobering. "But there is one last thing I wished to discuss, Lily."

"What is that, Albus?"

"Your… children," he said delicately.

Lily was certain the temperature in the room dropped five degrees as fear swept over her. What could he possibly want to say about her kids? And why would it warrant such a tone? "What about them?"

"If… well, if, that is, they are Sorted into Slytherin… I think it _might_ be best for Aurora to deal with any matters of discipline involving them, even if it is otherwise a strictly in-house matter. For the sake of avoiding any potential conflict of interest, you understand."

She did. For a moment, she had thought that he might be about to suggest that she could not have them in class when the time arrived, or associate with them outside of lessons. It was a great flood of relief that she stuttered, "Y-yes. Of course. That makes perfect sense. We should do the same for Draco Malfoy, too."

"Ah, yes… I had forgotten Narcissa named you his godmother."

To be honest, Lily forgot that most days as well. By 1981, Narcissa had been desperate to secure a future for her son in the event that the Light triumphed over the Dark Lord; when Lily had been captured in January of 1982, Narcissa had let her go in exchange for an Oath of Godparenthood. It clearly hadn't been her only back-up plan: the Malfoys had weathered the end of the War much better than Lily had, and in any case, she had played even less of a part in Draco's life than she had in her own children's, but it was still a potential conflict of interest.

"Do you want to tell Aurora, or shall I?"

"Oh, you may do so, if you happen to see her." He consulted a scrap of parchment on his desk. "Well, I do believe that concludes everything I had wished to discuss at the moment. We still have a little time before Rosalind arrives for my next meeting. If you'd like to stay and keep me company, I'll have biscuits sent up…"

"Well, perhaps just one," she grinned. "There is one other thing I was hoping to ask you. A favor, actually."

He finished calling an elf and ordering tea and pastries before he asked, "Oh? And what might that be, my dear?"

"Well…" she began, drawing out the word. "As you may recall, it's been several years since I've been able to see Jimmy and Victoria…"

"For which I am, for my part, terribly sorry, my dear," he offered, all false-sympathy.

She sighed. "It's not your fault James is a prat. But anyway, I was thinking… if it's not too much trouble, for the sake of the children, could I perhaps take Milton's place this year, bringing the firsties across the lake? I… I really think it would be better for them than having to sit through the Sorting and the Feast without even a chance to say hello."

"And for you, I dare say," the wizard suggested.

"Well… yes. It's been _three years_ , Albus. Please. I don't want them to think I don't care, sitting up at the high table and hardly sparing them a glance."

He shrugged. "I don't see the harm in it. But Lily, this must be a one-time exception. If you catch them breaking the rules or have them in class, or even in the Defense Club, you are to treat them just as you would any other student. Am I understood?"

"Perfectly, sir!" she assured him quickly. The tea arrived then, and she helped herself to a biscuit (lemon, of course), though she declined a cup. "I'll just let Milton know, shall I?"

Dumbledore chuckled, eyes twinkling merrily. "Yes, yes, I'll let you get off to it. See you at the Feast, my dear."

"See you then, Albus," she grinned.

Now all she had to do was wait the two and a half hours until she could reasonably take the Fleet across to Hogsmeade. She sighed. Well, perhaps she could figure out a basic syllabus for her Defense Club to help pass the time…


	5. COH3: The Start of a Beautiful Emnity

The trip to Hogwarts went by much more quickly than Jimmy or Victoria had expected. As Jimmy had predicted, Madam Bones had gotten her niece and her ward to the station early, and Susan and Neville had saved seats, as promised. After searching the train for their compartment (and greeting various acquaintances along the way), they had settled in and returned to the all-consuming question which every incoming first-year student faced: which house were they most likely to be sorted into?

When they had exhausted every possible iteration of 'probably Hufflepuff' (Susan and Neville) and 'it doesn't matter, as long as they don't separate us' (Jimmy and Victoria), they moved on to Exploding Snap, and then, after the lunch trolley passed, to the very serious business of trading chocolate frog cards. Susan really wanted Jimmy's Nimue to complete her Rare Witches set, but as far as he was concerned, she didn't have anything worth offering in exchange. She was still trying to convince him that Agrippa was at least as valuable when a girl with buck-teeth and very frizzy brown hair peeked through the window of their compartment, then walked away, biting her lip. She did this three times before Neville opened the door with his customary customary shy smile.

"Um… hi," he greeted the girl. "Were you looking for someone?"

"Well, no, not really," she admitted. "I was just on my way back from the loo, and I saw that you had some extra space, and I was wondering if I might be able to move to sit here, because I was trying to read and the girls I was sitting with were very obnoxious, but then I thought I should get my bag first," she lifted the very full muggle knapsack at her feet slightly and dropped it again with a soft _thump_. Victoria noted the rubber-soled muggle trainers and denim trousers extending from under her school robes. _Muggleborn_ , she realized, even as the girl continued to speak. "So I did, but then I thought it might be presumptuous to just show up with everything, so I was going to take it back, but then I thought well, it couldn't be worse to go back to that other compartment than to just ask, could it? So can I sit with you?"

She said all of this very quickly, leaving the four of residents of the compartment blinking in astonishment.

"Um… yes?" Neville answered, budging aside to allow her to enter.

Jimmy moved to help her with her bag, and was obviously shocked when he realized how heavy it was. "Christ on a cracker!" he swore, using one of Dad's favorite exclamations. "What do you have in this thing? Bricks?"

The girl looked somewhat offended. " _Books_ , mostly. All of the school texts, and _Hogwarts, a History_ , and –"

Victoria sniggered, more at the face Susan made trying not to laugh than at the muggleborn girl, but once she looked up, glaring, the Evans witch felt she had to say _something_. "Haven't you got a trunk for those?"

The muggleborn planted her hands on her hips and stuck her nose as far in the air as it would go. "What if I'd wanted to reference them on the way?"

"Why would you?" Jimmy snorted.

Susan chose that moment to interrupt. "Jimmy, Vic, you're being rude, and you haven't even introduced yourselves yet! I'm Susan Bones," she addressed the stranger, whose metaphorical hackles went down slowly.

"Hermione Granger," she offered slightly warily.

Susan grinned encouragingly. "That's my brother, Neville Longbottom," Neville waved awkwardly.

"Um… brother? But…"

"My auntie Amelia adopted us both," the Bones girl explained. "And these two jerks are Jimmy and Victoria Evans. Ignore them; they have no manners."

"Hey!" Victoria objected, as Jimmy said, "Father tried, but Dad thinks etiquette is for squares."

"Squares?" Neville asked.

"Um… boring people?" Victoria tried to explain. "It's a muggle thing, I think."

"It's slang, from when our parents were kids," Hermione Granger offered, taking a seat. "It generally means someone who's rigidly conventional or, well… out of touch with the times, basically."

Jimmy and Victoria exchanged a look, then shrugged. "Yeah. Sounds about right," Victoria agreed.

"Dad uses it for the Traditionalists," Jimmy added.

"And Father, sometimes, when he's being a prat."

"Wait – when James is being a prat, or when Sirius is?" Susan asked with a grin. Neville laughed.

The twins exchanged another look and a shrug. "Both?" "Either?"

Suddenly, Hermione seemed to realize something. She squirmed uncomfortably for a moment before asking, "So, if you two have two… fathers… um. Is that… normal, in the magical world? For, um, two men to be married?"

The twins started sniggering as Neville and Susan exchanged exasperated looks.

"What?" Hermione demanded.

"They're not married," Neville explained.

"They're not even lovers," Susan added.

"Then… how…?"

"Do you want to explain, or should I?" Victoria asked.

"When a mummy and a daddy and a daddy love each other very much…" Jimmy began, before breaking off with a snort of laughter. "Nah. You do it."

"Alright," she said, settling down to look the muggleborn in the eyes. "It's like this: our mum and our dad and our father were all friends back in school, a long time ago. They got together as a triad during the War, which is rare, by the way, but not unheard of, and mum got preggers at Beltane of '79. By both of them. That would be almost impossible any other time, but with the fertility magic in the air… so yeah. We're twins _and_ half-siblings."

"And like, sixth cousins," Jimmy added, entirely unnecessarily.

Hermione looked confused, so Victoria explained: "Dad and Father are cousins. Dad's a Black, and so was Father's mother. But nobody counts sixth cousins."

"I'm just saying, that's why we look alike. 'Cos Father looks like Grandmother Dorea, and she looked like the Blacks."

"Oh. Okay. Fine. Whatever. Point is, Dad and Father are our sires, and they both claimed both of us, which means we're both children of the houses of Black and Potter."

"But you can only have one _father_ , really," the muggleborn objected. "It's – that's how DNA _works_!"

"Oh, we know that," Victoria assured her (though she had no idea what 'DNA' was). "I guess when we get married they'll have to tell everyone who is the blood-heir of which House, but until then it doesn't really matter. We're both Evanses, because the three of them never got married. The way Dad puts it is: he loved Father, Father loved Mother, and Mother didn't love either one of them. Not like that, at least. They broke up after the War ended. Mother left. Dad and Father decided to raise us together. Now, well, Mother never talks about either one of them in her letters. We haven't seen her in _years_. Father hates her, and is still just best friends with Dad. Dad _wishes_ they were lovers, and is apparently on speaking terms with Mother –"

" _Since when_?!" Susan interrupted. Victoria smirked. She was well aware that her best friend considered her family life to be like something out of a trashy novel. She thought Dad's devotion to Father had all the makings of a high tragedy, and would eat up any bit of gossip about their parents with a spoon.

"No idea," Jimmy muttered. "We found out this morning. Apparently she's to meet us at Hogsmeade to un-shrink our trunks for us."

"Wait… what?" Hermione asked.

"Dad shrank our trunks for apparating," Jimmy explained, pulling his out of his pocket and looking at it as though it had betrayed him with its miniature size, "but then we… got caught up, on the platform, and they didn't have time to un-shrink them and stow them for us."

"You must have been cutting it _very_ close!" the muggleborn observed, with a faintly disapproving air.

Neville chuckled. "They're always late for everything."

" _Always_ ," Susan reiterated. "Aunt Amelia says Sirius Black would be late to a meeting with Death himself."

Jimmy laughed. "Explains how he's still alive, then, doesn't it?"

"Does your mother, ah… live in Hogsmeade, then?" Hermione asked.

Victoria shook her head. "No, she lives at Hogwarts. She's the Healing Professor and Head of Slytherin House."

The muggleborn looked intensely curious. "Just ask," Jimmy advised her.

"Oh, well… are you excited? I mean, you said you hadn't seen her in years, and now you're going to be living with her…"

"Excited is…" Victoria began.

"One word for it," Jimmy finished the thought.

"We'd rather not talk about her," Victoria said firmly.

From the look on her face, the muggleborn was well aware that she had touched on a sensitive topic. "Oh. A-Alright. Um. So, you all know each other. Does that mean your families are all magic? Nobody in my family is. My parents were ever so surprised to find out I was a witch. Very pleased, too, of course, but it's not really the expected thing, is it, having the Deputy Head show up on your doorstep to tell you your daughter's been invited to study magic."

The other children nodded and giggled a bit at the idea of Deputy Headmistress McGonagall (the one Victoria's parents referred to as 'Minnie') showing up on any of their doorsteps before Jimmy announced with false pomposity: "You, my dear Miss Granger, have the honor, the _distinct honor_ , I say, of being seated with the last scions of the three _oldest_ wizarding families in Magical Britain. I will have you know that the House of Black traces its magical ancestors all the way back to the first century!"

Neville snorted. "And _I'll_ have you know they can only _prove_ about half of that."

"Ah, but we can make people _believe_ it regardless," Jimmy smirked. "Not that it does much good, really."

"Except for yanking the blood purists' chains," Susan suggested.

"Well, _obviously_ ," the male twin agreed.

His sister ignored her friends' by-play. "Our mum's muggleborn, though," she assured the lost-looking stranger. "So we're half-bloods. And Dad loves Muggle London, so we've spent a fair bit of time with muggles, even though we don't really know much about her family in particular. Nev and Sue are purebloods. All their family have been magic for generations on both sides."

"Not that it really matters," Susan inserted rather sadly. "All our parents and grandparents died in the war. These idiots got off lucky, having _three_ parents survive."

Victoria gaped at the other girl. " _Wow_. Way to be a downer, Sue."

"It's true, though," Susan shrugged.

" _Still_!"

"Whatever."

"Sorry," Victoria offered.

"It's fine. I'm not upset. I'm just saying, we weren't exactly the Weasleys or the Rosiers growing up, you know?"

"Um… no. I really don't," Hermione interrupted, before making a heroic effort to change the subject: "But that means you all grew up around magic, right? Do you know a lot of spells? I'm so worried I'll be behind before we've even started. I mean, I've been memorizing our schoolbooks, and I've tried a few of the easy ones, and they've all worked for me, but…"

The twins and exchanged a look with their friends before breaking out into simultaneous grins. "You could say we know a fair bit," Jimmy began.

Neville interrupted to assure the worried-looking muggleborn that she wouldn't be too far behind in the practical subjects, but then Jimmy cut him off.

"Yeah, but, like, prank spells and the little hexes and jinxes and their counters – they don't put those in schoolbooks."

Hermione looked worried again, but her eyes lit up when Susan said, "We can teach you some, if you want. We still have a couple hours until we get to the school."

After that, the time flew by, until suddenly the sun was setting, and they had only half an hour to go.

That was when Draco Malfoy, prat extraordinaire, decided to darken the twins' compartment doorway.

Most unfortunately for him, he chose to do so as they were practicing _Tarantallegra_ and aiming at the closed door.

He opened it just as Hermione managed her very first proper Dancing Feet Spell.

His two constant companions and lackeys, Vinnie Crabbe and Greg Goyle, caught him before he could hit the floor, but his legs spasmed out from under him as he glared impotently at the five of them.

"Who threw that? Answer me, you – you –"

Poor Draco's swearing skills really were appalling. The Evans twins suspected that it was because he had no proper examples at home.

"Wankers?" Jimmy suggested.

"Twats?" Victoria offered.

"Muggle-loving blood-traitors!"

"I know you _think_ that's an insult, Malfoy," Susan sneered, "but it's really not."

"You… sodding… _bitch_!" the blond growled, his legs still twitching.

"Come, now! There's no need for _vulgarity_ , Draco! What would your dear mummy say?" Jimmy smirked.

"Yes, Malfoy," his sister drawled. "You _know_ how Cousin Cissy feels about any lapse in propriety."

"Is that why you _assaulted_ her on the platform, you… heathen swine?! I can't _believe_ you dared lay a _hand_ on her!"

"You… _touched Lady Malfoy_?" Neville asked, in a tone that suggested 'Lady Malfoy' was interchangeable with 'a flobberworm.' " _Why_?"

"It was just a _hug_ , from one loving cousin to another, Draco," Jimmy defended himself, even as the blond exploded at Neville.

"They wanted to make a scene and embarrass her, of course! You mud-licking traitors are lucky I just found out, or I'd've –"

"You'd've _what_ , Malfoy?" the muggleborn asked, clearly having decided to get in on the fun. "Stood there and twitched at him and sworn incompetently?"

"Shut up, mudblood!" the boy snapped. The four magical children inside the compartment stared at him in shocked silence. Nobody in their world used _that word_ , and _especially_ not to a muggleborn's face.

The pureblood prat was still talking – something about the _real_ wizards were speaking, and she should just hold her tongue – oblivious to the danger as Hermione muttered: "You know, I think shutting up is an _excellent_ idea. What was that spell again? Oh, yes! _Lokum Baglamak!_ "

A ball of yellow light hit the boy in the middle of his chest, and his mouth instantly snapped shut as his teeth stuck themselves together. "MMMMMMM!" he shouted through his clenched jaw as the others broke out into slightly hysterical laughter.

Crabbe and Goyle attempted to advance, but to get through the compartment door, they would have had to drop their still-shaking leader, and they would almost certainly be hexed into jelly first since none of them appeared to have their wands, and everyone in the compartment already had theirs out. After a short, tense stand-off, they muttered: "We'll get you later!" "Yeah, later, mudblood!" and sloped away, dragging Draco with them.

After Hermione was soundly congratulated on her taste in enemies, Susan and Neville changed into their school robes, just in time for the five-minute warning announcement. Susan, Neville, and Hermione tried to assure the increasingly anxious Evans twins that their mother would be there to sort out their trunks and their uniforms, though it did little good.

They flooded off the train with everybody else, lost in a sea of black robes and cloaks. Fortunately, someone had cast an illusion high into the air, spelling out the words 'First Years' with an arrow pointing toward the place they were presumably meant to meet. The five of them linked arms and headed in that direction, only to be ambushed by a very angry – and now armed – Malfoy and company. He had found reinforcements, too: Pansy Parkinson, Tracey Davis, and a rather reluctant-looking Millicent Bulstrode, all of whom the Evans twins recognized from the occasional public confrontation between their parents.

"I've got you now, muggle trash!" he crowed, as Jimmy and Victoria pushed their friends back, and Crabbe and Goyle closed in on them.

"What are you doing?!" Hermione shouted. "They're going to get killed, we have to help!"

The twins exchanged a look. Not likely. "I'll take Goyle," Jimmy whispered.

Victoria nodded, and they squared off against their opponents. The bigger boys, unlike the twins, had no training in any sort of fighting to speak of. There was no way either of the Evanses could take them in a straight-up wrestling match, but they were easy to dodge as they tried to throw punches and grab the arms and robes of the smaller witch and wizard. With a few solid trips and shoves, they stumbled off balance and into each other. Once they were on the ground and tangled up in each other's robes, Jimmy used the Leg-locker Jinx on them, forcing them to pin each other in place as their feet snapped together.

But Malfoy was cleverer than he looked. While his goons distracted the only decent fighters amongst the smaller group of first-years, the girls exchanged jinxes with the out-numbered Bones wards, and he himself focused on Hermione.

"See how _you_ like it! _Tarantallegra! Aspictus! Digitalis Wibbly!_ "

"Leave her alone, Draco! Your problem is with _us_!" Victoria shouted, distracting him long enough to close the distance between them while her brother dealt with the goons and directing her wand at his chest.

But then Parkinson snapped " _Lingula Longorgium!"_ and she felt her tongue begin to lengthen, growing and stretching far too long to allow her to pronounce any spell at all, let alone one that would incapacitate Malfoy.

He smiled cruelly at her and hissed, _"Tsimpísete!_ " sending a bolt of orange light at her. She cringed as it struck, and tried to avoid biting down on her unnaturally long tongue.

"VICA!"

Victoria heard her brother yell, but she was far more concerned with the pain of a thousand stinging, twisting pinches all over her body and more specifically, _stopping_ it.

To that end, she took two steps forward and punched her cousin in the stomach, breaking his concentration. He doubled over, gasping, and she snatched his wand from his hand before sweeping his legs out from under him.

It was about _that_ time that the girl noticed their little scuffle had attracted an audience. A circle had formed around the eleven of them, and the other students were muttering ominously. Everyone except Jimmy seemed to be more or less incapacitated, and Hermione was still whimpering under the effects of Malfoy's Stinging Jinx.

But more importantly, an auburn-haired professor in darkly colored Healer's robes was advancing on them slowly from the direction of the 'First Years' sign. She was clapping sarcastically slowly, and her eyes glowed killing-curse green, showing her anger.

"What. The _hell_. Is going on here?" she bit out, glaring around at all of the shame-faced combatants.

Jimmy looked to Victoria just long enough to see her tongue, extending past her chin, before sweeping his hair back, out of his eyes, and plastering his most charming grin in place. "Wotcha, mum. Aren't you happy to see us?"


	6. COH4: Sorting

Lily could not have been in a better mood when she left the castle, half an hour before the train was scheduled to arrive. She landed the little fleet of boats on the Hogsmeade side of the lake and hurried up the steep path to the station. After several minutes pacing the platform, she decided to put up a sign to draw the first years together since she lacked the groundskeeper's stature, and it was already quickly growing dark. That took about half a minute, after which the Stationmaster took pity on her and drew her into conversation. It was mindless small-talk, but far better than nothing.

The flood of students off the train was every bit as chaotic as she recalled from her own days as a student, though she knew objectively that there were far fewer of them this year than there had been back then. She was only expecting thirty-five first-years; her own class had had at least twice as many students.

She waited patiently under her sign, counting noses and matching faces to the names on her list as the first-years separated themselves slowly from the mob of upperclassmen who dallied rather than making their way toward the carriages. They straggled up in ones and twos until their total number reached twenty-three, at which point Lily noticed a few flashes of spell light down near the front of the train, and a suspicious gravitation of students in that direction. Presumably the twelve missing first-years had been caught up in it the excitement as well, Victoria and Jimmy among them.

"Wait here, you lot," she ordered the obedient faction of the first-year class. "I'll be right back." And with that she stalked off to break up the fight and fetch her missing children.

Her good mood fled as soon as she worked her way through the mob around the fight and realized that her missing children – or most of them, at least, had not managed to get caught up in _watching_ , but in the makeshift duel itself.

Not only that, but she seemed to have missed most of the action. She arrived just in time to hear her son scream and see her daughter belt her godson in the stomach and snag his wand out of his hand. _Thank the Powers she didn't snap it_ , Lily thought irrelevantly. She wouldn't have put it past Sirius to teach their children that ending a fight meant destroying any chance that the enemy would regain their weapon, and she most definitely didn't fancy explaining to the Malfoys that their son would need a brand new wand before school even started.

She clapped slowly as she advanced on the scene, enjoying the attention as the older students focused on her approach, but not nearly enough to ameliorate her anger on seeing her children attacked (regardless of the fact that they seemed to have given worse than they got).

"What. The _hell_. Is going on here?" she bit out, holding her temper in check with effort.

It was Jimmy who answered, with a gesture he had almost certainly copied from James and a smirk that was all Sirius. "Wotcha, mum. Aren't you happy to see us?"

Despite everything, she was. But she had to be a responsible adult and teacher, and she had just found them in the middle of a fight, which meant she couldn't say so. Instead, she raised an unimpressed eyebrow at the lot of them. Jimmy wilted slightly, and glared at her.

 _Damn it!_ she thought helplessly. _This is NOT how I wanted this reunion to go!_ But what she said was: "Fun's over. Anyone who's injured or hexed, see me immediately. Second-years and up, head to the carriages, _now_. All other first years, go wait under the sign with the rest of your class. I'll be there shortly to accompany you to the Castle."

The crowd cleared out slowly as she performed assessment spells to determine the hexes used on each student and reversed them. Most of them tried to defend their own actions as they did. It seemed that the muggleborn girl, Hermione, had hexed Draco on the train. The Parkinson girl and her friends had wanted to help him get back at her. According to Susan Bones, she, Neville, and Lily's own children had responded defensively to Draco's ambush, leading to the state of affairs she had witnessed. Draco and his two friends were suspiciously quiet about their role in the fight, which led Lily to believe that there was more to it than she had been told.

She saved Jimmy and Victoria for last, only to find that they were similarly reticent – though that might have been because they didn't know what to say to their estranged mother. If so, that was fair. She didn't know what to say to them, either. She suspected throwing herself on them and crying about how big they'd gotten and how sorry she was that she couldn't be with them while they were growing up, wouldn't really go over well.

Instead, she healed them silently, though she hissed when she realized that Victoria had had a Nerve Tweaking Curse used on her. It was one of the most elementary Dark spells, but a whole different category of maliciousness than the schoolyard hexes all the other students had used. She would have to report it.

 _Fuck_.

She sighed. "Victoria, who cast the Nerve Tweaker on you?"

"The what?"

"Orange curse. The incantation is _tsimpísete_."

" _Oh_ , that one. Malfoy. Does that mean I'm not in trouble for punching him?"

Lily laughed involuntarily at the expression on her daughter's face as she cast a charm to relieve the inevitable residual muscle pain. "No. But it does mean he's going to be in a lot more trouble than you."

" _Good_ ," Jimmy said firmly, with a look that promised additional retribution as well.

"Do try not to get caught," she advised him, and smirked at his double-take.

"How'd you know what I was thinking?"

"Oh, give me _some_ credit: you look just like Sirius when you're plotting revenge. Now, hold still and let me transfigure your robes."

It was the work of minutes to shift the twins' outer robes into identical black student uniforms. Transfiguration had never been Lily's strong suit, so she was sure her alterations would wear off in a matter of hours, but they would hold through the Feast, and this was definitely faster than unshrinking the trunks, having the children actually change, and then re-shrinking them for transport to the Castle, since the elves would already have cleared the luggage from the train. They held _very_ still while the spells took effect – so much so that Lily had to wonder whether Sirius and James had never done this, transfiguration prodigies and show offs that they were.

The kids exchanged a look and a high five before Victoria reminded her that they needed hats.

Lily duplicated her own. "Will this do?"

"Sure." Jimmy plonked his directly onto his head, while Victoria inspected the brim of hers.

"I can't even tell it's a fake!" she exclaimed.

Her mother snorted. "Well, you know what they say: A Healer is just a Charms Mistress with bells on. Come on, Minerva will have my hide if we're late for the Sorting." She ushered her children toward the rest of their class, keeping a sharp eye on Jimmy as he scoped out Malfoy and his comrades – all the Death Eaters' children in this class except the Nott boy, she thought. Victoria was showing off her hat to Susan and Hermione, apparently over the fight.

"All right, everyone!" she announced, making her way around the pack of first-years and counting noses again. All thirty-five were present. "I'm Professor Evans. I teach Healing, so you probably won't have class with me, but I'm looking forward to having at least a few of you in Slytherin House, so let's get to that Sorting, shall we? Follow me!"

The children trailed along behind her, chattering excitedly amongst themselves. There were gasps of delight as they finally had their first view of the Castle, and Lily grinned, and paused for a moment to admire it herself. It really was too easy to forget how beautiful it was, living there day in and day out.

When they reached the boats, she had to break up a quiet but furious argument between Neville Longbottom and her son regarding who would join their sisters in their boat. It seemed that Victoria and Susan had thoroughly adopted the muggleborn girl, and they loudly assured her that she should stay right where she was when she offered to get out of the boat to solve their problem. Neville, too, had already sat down. After a quick scan of the other boats, most of which were already full, Lily sent Jimmy to join Blaise Zabini, Daphne Greengrass and Theo Nott, since the only other alternative was the one with Draco Malfoy and the hulking boys who had to be the sons of Crabbe and Goyle. To be honest, she had never quite figured out which of the brutish Death Eaters was which, so she couldn't guess for the sons, either.

 _They_ got the joy of sharing with _her_ as they floated across the lake, her urgency adding just a little more speed to their passage than usual when she activated the enchantments on the boats.

Perhaps surprisingly, it was not Draco who tried to talk to her first, but the shorter, chunkier of the two whose names she didn't know. "Uh, Professor Evans?" he began hesitantly.

"Yes?"

"You're the Head of Slytherin?"

"Yes."

"And, um… Evans wasn't having us on about you bein' his mum?"

Lily sighed. "No. I really am Jimmy and Victoria's mother."

"Are you mad at us for getting in a fight with them?" the tallest of the three boys asked. "'Cos you should know, we only did 'cos we heard Evans was bothering Draco's mum at King's Cross, an' then that mudblood hexed Draco when we went to talk to them about it."

Somehow, Lily didn't doubt that – at least the first part. Sirius was exactly the sort of irresponsible moron who _would_ get his children involved in continuing the petty familial feud that had been going on between himself and Narcissa since they were five years old.

Instead of immediately addressing that can of worms, she took the offensive. "What's your name?" she asked rather sharply.

"Goyle, Miss. Gregory Goyle."

"Well, Mr. Goyle, I'll let it slide this time, since we're not even to the school yet, but you will very quickly learn that the term ' _mudblood_ ' is _not_ tolerated at Hogwarts. Not only is it considered a breach of the Truce to judge your fellow students based on their blood status, but several of your professors, including myself, are muggleborn or muggle-raised, and we _all_ lived through the War. You would do well to remember that. _All_ of you," she added, with a hard look at Draco, who cringed.

Gregory nodded. "Yes, Miss."

" _Professor_ ," she corrected him again. "Or _ma'am_. I may look like your governess, but as we've established, I _do_ have children of my own. And in answer to your question, I _am_ quite put out with you, but no more so than I am with Victoria and Jimmy, and quite a lot _less_ than I am with Mr. Malfoy."

The boy in question spoke up for the first time since she entered the boat. "But that little hellion _hit_ me!" he objected.

"She hit you to _end_ the fight, _after_ you used a Nerve Tweaking Curse on her. You're lucky she didn't snap your wand."

The boy clutched at the wand in his pocket, but glared at her bravely. "They still started it! And that mud – _muggleborn_ hexed me! She deserved it!"

"With what spell, Mr. Malfoy?" Lily asked coolly. "Are you telling me that a witch who has known about magic for all of a month managed not only to get one over on you, but did so with a spell damaging enough that it warranted an ambush on the platform? And I may remind you, you used the Nerve Tweaker not on Miss Granger, but on Miss Evans, who, according to everyone else, only attempted to defend her friend from your attack!"

He didn't answer, so he must have known that his retaliation was out of line. She wondered if he might even know that spell was banned. She would have to write Narcissa, she realized, suppressing a groan at the thought. It was literally the least she could do, seeing as the infuriating child _was_ her godson. She would have to tell Sirius, too, initiating yet another round of 'which Black cousin is the most insane?' as they went back and forth blaming each other for their children's actions.

"She was sayin' on the platform that Draco wanted to be a werewolf," the boy who must be Vincent Crabbe explained after a moment.

"I never wanted to be a werewolf!" Draco interrupted.

Vincent ignored him. "Those Weasley twins heard, and they told the whole train he _was_ a werewolf."

Lily resisted the urge to massage her temples. "And I suppose it never occurred to you that if you simply ignored such a ridiculous rumor, it would go away as soon as everyone realized you were present and un-transformed on full moons?"

Draco glared at her. "It's a matter of _honor_ – mine _and my mother's_ – Burke said they had their filthy paws all over her! They embarrassed her in front of _everyone_! Maybe _muggleborns_ don't understand, but _some of us_ care about our families' reputations!"

Vincent and Gregory looked aghast, as though they couldn't believe their friend had just insulted a teacher so blatantly, and especially one who was already mad at him.

She gave the boy her most dangerous smile – the one that barred all her teeth, and never reached her eyes. James had once told her it made her look like a shark. Sirius thought it made her look like de Mort, which was the name Old Snakeface had used around the Blacks when Sirius was a kid. He had made her promise not to use it on him because it creeped him out. It seemed to have a similar effect on Draco, who quailed before her. " _Some of us_ know that there are some things more important than reputation. Like _survival_."

It probably made her a bad person that she found the look of horror on the child's face to be faintly amusing, and felt no shame at intimidating an eleven-year-old.

If anyone asked, she would say she had been referring to the fact that defending one's honor by force was a traditionally Gryffindor preoccupation, but in truth, she was thinking more of how her own reputation was a mixed bag after everything she had done to survive the War and its aftermath. Well, that and the fact that one should only defend one's reputation if it would help one survive. She, for example, was more than willing to terrify arrogant little shithead first-years if it meant they wouldn't challenge her authority while she was still trying to establish her hold over Slytherin House.

The remainder of the journey across the lake passed silently, though the three boys started whispering hoarsely to each other as soon as she left the boat. She followed the students up the stairs to the Castle, making sure that none of them fell behind and delaying the moment when she would have to make her excuses for their tardiness to her former Head of House. Not that she and Minerva didn't get along, but they were not nearly the friends they once were, after the Trials, and the Deputy Headmistress hated it when the year started off on the wrong foot.

Sure enough, she was waiting outside the open door when Lily finally approached, and she gave the students only a moment to straighten their uniforms before taking them through to the Sorting. For Lily, she had only a few words: "Go find your seat, Professor Evans. We will talk about this later."

She wished the students good luck before she headed for the high table. Septima was sitting in Lily's usual spot, which meant the only free seat was between Minerva's empty one and the bored-looking Bathsheda. Apparently they would be discussing the delay over dinner. Joy. Well, maybe she could get a few pointers on ward-breaking after Minerva finished reprimanding her: some of the ones the seventh-years had used on their dorms had been painfully arduous to remove for her room checks.

The Deputy Headmistress entered moments later, leading the firsties to stand before the professors, facing their fellow students. Most of them looked at least nervous, though for some their anxiety was tempered by their first sight of the Hall. The muggleborn, for example, was looking up at the ceiling as though it was the most marvelous thing she had ever seen. Lily didn't blame her. It had been the most marvelous thing _she_ had ever seen when she arrived, and she hadn't even known, then, how impressive the enchanting was.

The Sorting Hat introduced itself in song, as usual. Though she had not yet been able to confirm her theory, she suspected that it owed some degree of its personality to the Headmaster of the school, like a dog that resembled its master. Dumbledore's head and shoulders swayed in time to the jaunty tune, and he clapped as loudly as any of the students when it was finished. She often wondered exactly how much of his harmless grandfather façade was only that – certainly some of it was, as she had seen in the war – but she rather suspected that his enjoyment of the little traditions of Hogwarts was entirely genuine.

Down in front of the table, Minerva unrolled the New Student Roll, and called the first name: "Bones, Susan!"

The Sorting Hat was not, as most students believed, simply an enchanted object. It _was_ , of course, enchanted, but the spells served only to animate its fabric and allow the intelligence bound within to express itself. The intelligence itself was called from beyond the mundane plane to accomplish the task of sorting the students of Hogwarts in accordance with the desires of the founders of the school. That was, strictly speaking, its only purpose, though it had, over the years, developed an attachment to the school and its humans, and had taken it upon itself to advise the Headmaster and facilitate a closer connection between those it deemed worthy Heads of each House and the wards of the school.

If one was to ask the Hat who truly ran Hogwarts, its response would have been a smug grin.

But this, the Sorting, was what it lived for (for lack of a better term): Examining the minds of each new child who would become, under the guidance of Hogwarts and her professors, the next link in an unbroken chain of influence stretching back centuries; comparing their youthful desires and beliefs against those of the founders, and judging which of the four would have desired the inclusion of each; comparing each personality to the current Heads' impressions of their houses and finding the best place for each student…

There was nothing like it.

The classes were smaller today than they once were, but each child was still as complex and paradoxically simple as ever.

The first few were easy to sort: Hufflepuff for her sense of fairness; Ravenclaw for his love of knowledge; another Ravenclaw, this one an artist at heart.

The next one might have been a Hufflepuff, with her love of communication, but she lacked the patience and dedication for that house, and so she became the first Gryffindor of the year.

She was followed by the first Slytherin – the Hat made a note to remind the Slytherin that her house was, as always, filled with the survivors as well as the ambitious. The terms of its geas prevented it from being more specific about anything it witnessed in the students' minds, but the Slytherin was clever enough; she would be able to spot the ones who needed more help than most – and moreover, she would give it. The Hat preened silently: sending the Slytherin to Gryffindor was the best decision it had made in several decades, it was sure.

The next child was another Ravenclaw – nearly a Gryffindor, with his bright idealism, and a wide streak of Slytherin slyness, but both were shallow: the Hat was willing to wager that the boy would grow out of them, and into the love of languages and music he hadn't quite recognized yet in himself.

The first real _challenge_ was Vincent Crabbe. He _should_ have been simple to sort: A deceptively calculating mind and a strong desire to distinguish himself from his two closest friends placed him firmly in Slytherin. But he had reservations.

"Well, if you don't want to go to Slytherin, where would you have me put you?" the Hat asked impatiently.

 _I don't know. I just…_ a fear-tainted memory made its way hazily to the surface of the boy's mind: the Slytherin, being deliberately intimidating as she reprimanded three students in a boat.

That was interesting.

The Hat followed the trail of memories back further, examining the details of the encounter. It would be loath to place a student in her care whom she truly despised, for the Slytherin could be vicious when crossed, but it thought she had assimilated enough Gryffindor idealism over the years to maintain her professionalism in most cases.

If the Hat could have snorted, it would have, on realizing the sequence of events. It was convinced that such a minor spat would not unduly influence the judgement of any Head of House, though it was clear the child did not agree.

"I _could_ put you in Hufflepuff," it admitted grudgingly, quickly perusing the child's personality again. The boy recoiled from the thought of that House – with good reason: it had acquired a reputation for ignominy over the past several decades, and he wanted more than anything to stand out. "Well, if you don't want Hufflepuff, it will have to be Slytherin. I assure you, the Slytherin will not hold your actions against you."

 _Are you sure?_ the child thought warily.

"Yes," the Hat said in its most exasperated tone, telling Vincent Crabbe what it knew he wanted to hear. "You're _eleven_. She's an adult, and far too proud to condescend to make your life miserable." Not to mention she was too canny to interfere too much in the lives of the children she had only just gotten back, and persecuting their childish enemies would certainly be that.

 _Okay, then_. A sense of relief accompanied the agreement.

"Don't worry. You truly do belong in SLYTHERIN!"

The next three were easy: a social climbing Slytherin; a sharp-tongued, fearless Gryffindor; and a Ravenclaw whose love of numbers would see him do well in Arithmancy, if the Hat was any judge.

"Evans, James!" the Gryffindor called. The Hat was fairly certain it was not imagining the note of resignation in her tone.

"Ah, what have we he-" it began, but it was cut off by the mental equivalent of a bellowing _WAIT!_

"…Yes?"

 _You have to Sort me with Vica!_ the boy insisted.

The hat sighed. This was a recurring problem with twins. "No, child, I must Sort you where you belong, and your sister where _she_ belongs."

 _But…_

The Hat ignored the child's objections as it skimmed through his thoughts. "Clever, cunning mind; adaptable; determined – you are certainly your parents' child, and I see the makings of a good Slytherin here..."

That suggestion raised a whole tangle of half-formed thoughts and emotions, beginning with resignation – clearly the boy had known his most likely house – and running the gamut from fear ( _But Vica won't be a Slytherin!_ ) to reluctance ( _extreme_ discomfort with the idea of being in his mother's House, especially without his sister at his side) to curiosity ( _and all my parents were Gryffindors!_ ).

The Hat chuckled. "That was only my first choice for one of them, and I think you can guess which one."

 _Father_ , the boy thought instantly. _Were Dad and Mum supposed to be Slytherins?_

"Ah, ah, ah. That would be telling."

 _I bet they were,_ the child deduced correctly, taking into account his mother's current job title and father's natal house, along with the Hat's hint. _But wait – they_ weren't _Slytherins – you gave them a choice!_

"I did," the Hat confirmed. "But I will not Sort you to a house you truly do not belong in, and much as I see you would like to join your sister in Godric's House, I have to say, you would make a very poor Gryffindor."

 _You said I was adaptable!_ he argued. _I could learn to be a Gryffindor! I could be brave!_

"Your every thought only makes me believe that Slytherin is the right choice for you, young man. Besides, there is no guarantee that your sister will be in Gryffindor. But perhaps…"

 _Perhaps what?!_

"Perhaps Hufflepuff. Helga would approve of your loyalty, and I see no fear of hard work in you. If your sister is the same, she might join you there."

 _Yes! Do it! Hufflepuff!_

"Very well, then," the Hat agreed, amusement tinging its tone. "HUFFLEPUFF!"

There was a distinct note of surprise in the Gryffindor's voice as she called the female twin: "Evans, Victoria!"

 _Hufflepuff, Hufflepuff, Hufflepuff, Hufflepuff_

"Oh, for the love of…"

 _Hufflepuff, Hufflepuff, Hufflepuff, Hufflepuff_

"I can, and must still evaluate you, you know."

 _Hufflepuff, Hufflepuff, Hufflepuff, Hufflepuff_

"Fine! Loyalty, determination, idealism. You'll make a fine HUFFLEPUFF!"

 _Thank you, Hat._

The Hat harrumphed. "Would've made a better Gryffindor, though," it muttered as she lifted it carefully from her head.

She snorted. "Nuh-uh. I _want_ to be a Hufflepuff, with Jimmy. I wouldn't have been a better Gryffindor, because I didn't want to be there."

The Hat could hardly deny that logic as it was passed back to the Gryffindor, who was emanating a mixture of relief and confusion. The Hat could understand that response – truly. It recalled the first-year class of 1971 with great clarity – as well as the trials a certain trio of Gryffindors had presented to their Head of House over the years. The Hufflepuff would probably be cursing the Slytherin and her spawn with in the week, but that was certainly not the Hat's problem.

The next boy was a Gryffindor, craving adventure and excitement, followed by a Ravenclaw with a poet's soul.

The Hat's conversation with Gregory Goyle was strangely reminiscent of Victoria Evans: he wanted to ensure that he was sent to Slytherin alongside his best friend (Vincent Crabbe) and, he presumed, one Draco Malfoy. Thankfully he was decently suited to Slytherin, with deep-rooted ambitions to exceed his family's expectations for him, even if Hufflepuff would have been the Hat's first choice.

And then there was the muggleborn. The Hat was aware that there was only one, this year, and knowing the circumstances of the demographic depression at the end of the War, it had expected her to be a rather weak witch – one of the near-squibs whose accidental magic started small, and only worked up to major events that triggered the alerts in late childhood, rather than at the age of one or two.

It was _not_ expecting a fiercely intelligent, determined mind, and a startling degree of control over her magic. It had probably been a close thing, her setting off the sensors at all, but not for lack of power. It suppressed a wince as it came across the blocked memory of the lapse in control that had finally alerted the magical world to her existence. No – certainly not a near-squib. It made a note to alert the Slytherin about this one as well. She always took an interest in her fellow muggleborns, and this one was more like her than most.

"Well, well, what have we here…" it mused, pondering the mind before it. "I see a great love of knowledge, but an equally great desire to prove yourself, and to do so by making the world a better place. Very idealistic, but at the same time… you are very proud, aren't you. Not without reason, of course, given your intelligence and the work you have done to hone it, but…"

 _Please, just tell me where I belong_ , the child begged.

The Hat snorted. "Well, you have the work ethic of a Hufflepuff, and that house would help you learn humility, certainly."

 _And Susan and Victoria are there, that wouldn't be so bad_. A deep-seated longing for friendship accompanied the thought.

"Don't be too hasty, now," it chided her. "That boldness and tendency to rush into things without thinking them through is all Gryffindor, you know. But Gryffindor would only see you become more stubborn and self-righteous – don't deny it, you know you have a temper, child."

Irritation bloomed, but was quickly reigned in as the girl's more rational conscience insisted that she couldn't decide on a house based on a few hours' friendliness, anyway. _I – fine. Yes, that's true. But-_

"None of that, girl. Now, the Slytherin has made great strides with her House these past years, but old resentments linger. It would be good for the House to have a muggleborn in their midst – I have no doubts you would be able to prove yourself among them, but you would need to be constantly on guard. It would be a heavy burden to place on the shoulders of any first year."

 _I could do it._ A pulse of fiery determination flooded the Hat.

"That was never in question, my dear. The _question_ is, what kind of person would you become under that pressure?"

 _I… don't know. Does it matter?_

The Hat scoffed silently. "More than you might think. Which leaves us with Ravenclaw. You thought that the most appropriate house for you before you boarded the train, did you not?"

 _I… did_ , the girl admitted. _But now I'm not sure._

"I am," the Hat chuckled. "Ravenclaw will give you the best chance to grow into the sort of person who can accomplish her goals, regardless of how they may change as you age. And in any case, we both know that you would love learning even if you didn't want to change the world with your knowledge, don't we?" The girl flushed, but nodded slightly in acknowledgment. "Well, then, Hermione Granger, I think we shall put you in _Ravenclaw_!"

The next girl was a clear Slytherin, already well on her way to being groomed for politics at her tender age. She was followed by a slew of Hufflepuffs: the boy who wanted to do his best, whatever that might be; the girl who needed strong friendships to overcome her complete lack of self-worth; a near-Gryffindor who had his mother's quiet courage and devoted nature, and chose to follow her into Helga's house; the boy who had not a shred of deception or bravery or passion in his soul, but a stalwart heart and a bone-deep devotion to his family.

And then there was 'Malfoy, Draco!'

…

After her own children (about whose Sorting she found herself conflicted: amused, pleased, and slightly jealous of Pomona, despite knowing that it was for the best that they not reside in her House) it was Draco Malfoy's House assignment which most interested the Head of Slytherin. She leaned forward as the blond made his way toward the Hat. He had managed to push his way to the front of the line when the students entered, which meant she had a good profile of his face as he made his way back to the center of the Hall. Under a thin façade of confidence, she thought he looked nervous: his swaggering stride was just a bit too hasty, and his expression was closer to 'pensieve' than 'self-assured.'

It was no surprise at all that the minutes ticked by as he sat under the Hat – or at least not to Lily.

"Thought he'd've been a shoo-in for one of yours," Bathsheda muttered as her mental count neared 150 seconds.

"He reminds me more of Sirius as a child than Narcissa," Lily murmured back, though this meant little to the aged Runes professor, who had begun teaching after she and her cohort had graduated.

…

"So let me get this straight," the Hat repeated testily. "You don't want Slytherin because you don't like the Head of House, and you don't want Gryffindor because _it's Gryffindor_ , and you're not suited to Ravenclaw. Hufflepuff it is, then!"

 _NO! The Evans twins are in Hufflepuff!_ Draco complained, the underlying emotion more concerned with the fact that he would have no chance to form a strong following among children who were more concerned with fairness and equality than family and money than any real problem with the Evans twins. _Why can't I just have Ravenclaw?! I like reading._

"You like excelling, which is not the same thing. _At all_. You are not suited to Ravenclaw. You _are_ suited to Slytherin. Or Gryffindor."

A thrill of fear and disgust filled the boy at the suggestion of these houses, neither emotion disconnected from either House: he simply could not stand the idea of bowing to a muggleborn Head of Slytherin, especially one he was convinced had threatened his life as they were crossing the lake, and he was nearly as terrified of his reception in Gryffindor, among the children of his parents' enemies, as he was disgusted with the House and its reputation for noble idealism. _Please_ , the boy thought desperately, _can't you just_ –

"No," the Hat said firmly, considering the founders themselves and what they would have wanted. On the whole. "Gryffindor," it decided. Salazar would have approved of the child learning to deal with his enemies from a position of weakness, and Godric would have thought that the experience would build character. Plus, ironically, the Hat suspected that dealing with his fellow Gryffindors would teach the boy patience and cunning far better than Slytherin, given the makeup of each house at present.

 _But!_

"GRYFFINDOR!" it shouted for the hall to hear. The boy sat frozen in shock beneath the Hat's brim as the increasingly hungry students gave a polite smattering of applause.

"You _can't_ ," the boy hissed. "I'm a _Malfoy_! I can't be in _Gryffindor_!"

"You can and you will," the Gryffindor said quietly, lifting the Hat from the boy's head. "The Hat is never wrong. Now go join your housemates."

"But –"

"Go!"

"My father will –"

"I will write him myself if you delay this Sorting another second, Mr. Malfoy! Go!"

He went. The Hat chortled to itself: making such a scene over not _wanting_ to be sorted into his new house was not going to do the boy any favors with his new housemates. Perhaps he was even less Slytherin than the Hat had thought…

…

Up at the high table, Lily failed to completely suppress a snigger.

"Were you expecting that?" Bathsheda asked shrewdly.

"I wasn't _not_ expecting it," she admitted, applauding as the boy concluded his quiet argument with the Deputy Head and dragged his heels toward the Gryffindor table.

The Runes mistress sniffed. " _Slytherins_ ," she scoffed. "Always have to act like you know everything."

"Not _everything_ ," Lily smirked. "Just the _important_ things."

"Oh, hush, girl," the older witch chided as Leanne Malone was sorted into Hufflepuff and Lilian Moon took her place.

…

The Hat chuckled to itself as it sorted a hardworking, honest girl into Hufflepuff and debated whether the next girl would do better in Slytherin or Gryffindor. Slytherin, it decided, would better teach her to curb her impulsiveness and harness her manipulative tendencies. The next boy was a Slytherin, too, with a bone-deep _need_ to gain enough power to someday overrule his father's control of his life. He was followed by a girl who was terrified of the idea that she might _not_ go to Slytherin – _If Draco could be a Gryffindor, anyone could be_. Fortunately for her, her willingness to do whatever she had to in order to prove that she was more than just the future socialite her parents expected was sufficiently Slytherin to give her the house she desired.

The short streak of Slytherins was followed by another pair of twins, who, unlike the Slytherin's children, were more than willing to be separated. The first was a near-perfect Ravenclaw – independent and open-minded, but entirely concerned with her studies, while the second was far bolder and altogether Gryffindor.

The sorting moved quickly (inventive Ravenclaw, a near-Hufflepuff Gryffindor who was determined to fight for social justice, a near-Slytherin who wanted to reach his goals by Hufflepuff methods, the muggle-raised Gryffindor who thought Magical Britain was the best adventure he had ever imagined, the Ravenclaw whose quiet, studious façade hid a fantastic inner life and a desire to write) until the Hat reached the penultimate student.

"Ah, now… where to put _you_ ," the Hat muttered.

 _Gryffindor, obviously! All my family are Gryffindors!_ The boy was shaken, however, recalling the sorting of Draco Malfoy not half an hour before. All the Malfoys, after all, were Slytherins. Everyone knew that.

"Slytherin could give you an outlet for that desire to succeed, to be better than your brothers, to stand out…" the Hat wheedled.

 _No, I can't! It has to be Gryffindor_ , he thought fearfully.

The Hat was inclined to think that dealing with Slytherin might teach the boy bravery, much as dealing with the Gryffindors would teach the Malfoy boy cunning, but then… The Slytherins, of course, would establish a new pecking order quickly with the loss of Malfoy, and the student currently being sorted, with no money and no real idea of how to pursue his ambitions, would almost certainly be at the bottom, resentful and marginalized. As a Gryffindor, however, he would be an even more immediate foil for the Malfoy boy, and perhaps learn something of nobility and honor in turn, if the constant challenge did not turn him into a headstrong fool.

"I suppose there is a certain… naïve boldness to you," it allowed after considering this. "And I have sorted children for less, in the hopes that they might live up to the values of their house, rather than down to them."

 _Does that mean I'm a Gryffindor?!_ the boy wondered desperately.

"If you truly want it, then, yes, I suppose you can be a _Gryffindor_!"

The Hat doubted that decision only until it was set upon the head of the final child, an altogether too-collected boy who had been trained from the cradle to ruthlessness. He was not quite so cold-hearted about it as his mother had been and had no ambition to speak of, but there was no other place to put him but Slytherin, and if the Hat was any judge at all, placing the Weasley boy in the same house as the Zabini would have resulted in an even more explosive conflict of temperaments than between the Weasley and the Malfoy. At least, it thought as it shouted " _Slytherin_ ," neither the Malfoy nor the Weasley were likely to murder each other outright. The Zabini, well…

It let out a self-satisfied little hum of approval as the last child thanked it and moved away, pleased to have another sorting so successfully accomplished.


	7. COH5: Dinner Conversations

It was a _highly_ irritated Minerva who had come to join Lily at the High Table after the sorting was complete. She glared in freezing silence until the Headmaster concluded his opening remarks, then hissed, " _What did you do?"_

Lily helped herself to a roasted chicken breast. "I'm sure I haven't the foggiest idea what you're talking about."

"You were _late_ , and Draco Malfoy is in my house!"

"It's not _my_ fault Draco sorted into Gryffindor," Lily smirked. "And we were late because I had to break up a fight on the platform."

The Deputy Head's nostrils flared, her lips pressing into a very thin line. "A fight? Between whom?"

"I'm not going to tell you that, Minerva," the Head of Slytherin said as calmly as possible. "They weren't on school grounds, yet, and the school year hadn't begun, so it's of no consequence to you."

"You know as well as I do that the school year begins as soon as that train leaves the station! It was one of your Slytherins, wasn't it?" the Deputy Head asked suspiciously.

Lily smirked again. "I think you'll find that students from all Houses were involved. But that's really neither here nor there."

" _Malfoy_ ," the older woman muttered, apparently giving up on the topic of the fight for the moment. No doubt she would ask her prefects and get the whole story from them after dinner, or at breakfast.

"What _about_ him?"

"Why did his sorting take so long?"

"Well, obviously he wasn't inclined to go into the house he was best suited for," Lily offered reasonably.

"I don't think he _is_ best suited for my house! I knew his parents, you know, and –"

" _Minerva_ ," Lily said sharply, finally turning to look at her nominal superior. "Don't tell me you're going about judging children on the actions and personalities of their _parents_. Look at Jimmy and Victoria – neither of the boys nor I were in Hufflepuff, as I _trust_ you well remember."

The older witch snorted. "Only too well. I still think I've dodged a bullet on that one," she huffed.

The Head of Slytherin rolled her eyes. She probably had, but that wasn't the point. "The Hat would not have put Draco in Gryffindor if he didn't have the potential to belong in Gryffindor."

"And what would you know about it, missy?" Minerva scoffed.

Lily hesitated at that, but only for a moment. "You don't really think Gryffindor was its first choice for _me_ , do you?" She could still hear its voice echoing in her ears, from all those years ago: _Ah, I know exactly where you belong… but the house would ruin you, you know. Gryffindor, on the other hand… well, Godric would approve of your fire. Whether Salazar would approve depends, I suppose, on what you make of it…_

The Deputy Head's eyes hardened, as she was reminded of the extent to which Lily had deceived her in the years leading up to the end of the war. "No, I don't suppose I do, at that. Which reminds me, what was the Head of Slytherin doing, fetching students to the castle rather than preparing her dorms for their arrival?"

Lily sighed. It wasn't as though Minerva truly had much power over her. _Technically_ Lily, like all the professors and staff, reported to Minerva as the Deputy Head, but in practice, there was very little the Head of Gryffindor could do to discipline her former prefect. She lived at Hogwarts because her keeper lived at Hogwarts, she taught because she needed something to fill her days (other than dealing with the students' mischief) and wanted to remain in Dumbledore's good graces – it wasn't as though she was _paid_ – and her duties already included whatever miscellaneous rubbish the other professors didn't want to deal with. Most often, the older witch was forced to settle for variously public degrees of tongue lashing when Lily stepped out of line. Fortunately, it would only help her position within Slytherin that the Head of Gryffindor was very publicly put out with her at the moment.

Still, it was very irritating to be lectured in front of her peers as though she was still a child in Minerva's house. She sighed, holding her tongue and reminding herself that it was only a matter of time until the older witch ran out of steam. In the meanwhile, most of the others would sympathize with Lily, who had only wanted to see her children in person, and had acted perfectly professionally as she went to fetch them. The more Minerva ranted, the more unreasonable she would seem.

Truly, the sad part was, Lily wasn't even _trying_ to undermine her authority, but she was fairly certain most of the staff respected her at least as much as Minerva, and Dumbledore clearly relied on her more out of the two of them. It would be amusing to see if she could oust the older woman from her position entirely, she mused before she caught herself. _Bad Lily_ , she reprimanded herself with the slightest smirk. _Minerva is almost as much of an institution as Albus, and you_ know _you don't want the paperwork that comes with her job…_

"Sorry, what?" she asked absently, realizing that the witch in question had paused in her irritated tirade. "Yes, it was very wrong of me to be late to the sorting due to problems entirely beyond my control," she took a stab at addressing the argument she hadn't been paying the slightest attention to. Judging by Bathsheda's snort of half-suppressed laughter and Minerva's thinning lips, she had missed it by a good margin. "Erm… and also that your term has got off to a rubbish start?" Nope. "Listen, Minnie," she said finally, resorting to channeling Sirius. "You can whinge at me as much as you like, but that doesn't change the fact that I did not step outside the boundaries of professionalism in fetching the children, breaking up the fight, or dealing with the aftermath. Draco's sorting is neither my fault nor my problem, and throwing a strop won't change it. So act like a bloody adult and _deal with it_." She ignored the sputtering, incoherent response, instead turning her entire body toward the Runes Mistress. "Bathsheda, I was wondering if you might have any insights on wardbreaking…"

…

Down at the Hufflepuff table, a small knot of students watched this conversation avidly – with far more attention, in fact, than one of its participants.

"You don't think we got her in trouble, do you?" Victoria asked anxiously as the Deputy Headmistress glared at their mother.

"Nah," Jimmy assured her. "She doesn't look worried."

"She's a Slytherin, she could be hiding it." Victoria nodded; Susan clearly shared her concerns.

"No, I don't think so." Neville, on the other hand, almost always backed Jimmy's opinions. "That's the same look Vicky gives people when she wants them to think she's paying attention, but really isn't."

"Hey!" Victoria objected, but Susan giggled.

Jimmy did a double take, looking from his sister to his mother and back. "He's _right_."

"Of course I am. And look, she's talking to that other professor, now."

"Yeah, but Minnie still looks peeved," Victoria noted.

"It's _fine_ , sis. She's a grown woman. She can take care of herself."

"I know that, but…"

"C'mon, Vic, lighten up," Susan cajoled her, evidently reassured by the boys' arguments and Lily's ending hers up at the high table. "Talk to people, make some friends."

"Speaking of, what happened to Hermione?" Neville asked suddenly.

"She's over at Ravenclaw, down at the far end," Jimmy pointed.

The others turned to peer at the bushy brown head: she appeared to be talking animatedly to several of her new housemates. "I hope we have classes together," Victoria sighed. Aside from Susan, she didn't have any close female friends, and she had _liked_ the excitable Ravenclaw, especially once they had gotten past the awkward introductions.

"I'm sure we will," Jimmy said reasonably.

"And even if we don't, we'll still have loads of free time," Susan pointed out. "I'm sure we can find some time to spend with her."

"Who's that?" an older Hufflepuff asked, apparently noting that nearly half of the new Hufflepuffs were staring at the Ravenclaw table.

"A girl we met on the train," Victoria explained.

"And she got sorted into Ravenclaw? Tough luck," the girl said, making a face. "Still, your friend is right, you'll have plenty time to spend with friends from other Houses outside of class. Speaking of which, I'm Jan. I'm one of the third-year mentors, so I expect I'll be seeing a lot of you this term."

The firsties introduced themselves before Jimmy asked, "Mentors?"

"Sure!" Jan grinned. "We pair off with the new cubs and help you all get your bearings the first few weeks, and answer questions and such for as long as you need. Of course, you shouldn't be shy about asking anyone for help, not just _your_ mentor, but mostly third and fourth years are the best bet. Sometimes it's like the upper years have forgotten how completely overwhelming Hogwarts can be at first."

Neville and Susan did not look surprised. Apparently their aunt Amelia had told them more about Hufflepuff than either of the twins had thought to ask. Victoria, however, thought that sounded brilliant. Dad and Father had never mentioned anything similar in Gryffindor, and for all they had suspected that Jimmy was bound for Slytherin, they hadn't exactly had any Slytherin adults around to ask about the inner workings of that House.

"What are the dorms like?" Susan asked excitedly.

The older student laughed. "Well, you'll see after dinner, but…"


	8. Intermediate Divergence 1 Summary

This story diverges from the Mary Potter 'Canon' Timeline in the middle of the story 'An Intermediate Beginning' and is my long-delayed contribution to the collection of responses to Severitus' Challenge. Non-Chronological Narration! Requited Sev/Lily, secondary Jily. Part one of a Severitus trilogy. This story runs from pre-Hogwarts through the end of Harry's second year, focusing on how the situation came about, and Snape's thoughts about it all.

For anyone who doesn't know, the rules of the Challenge are:

1\. Severus Snape must be revealed to be Harry's father

2\. Remus Lupin must be at Hogwarts

3\. Harry must undergo some progressive physical change starting on his birthday. No *tada!* and suddenly he looks like Snape, at first anyway.

4\. The story must be based mostly around Harry and Snape

Quite honestly, the last one is a bit iffy: this is more like two interconnected stories, one mostly about Lily and Severus, and one about Severus and Harry, because if you asked Severus, he would say that his life has revolved around Lily Evans since the day he realized she was a witch.

The Severus and Lily story depicts a world and a war that is somewhat different from both the Harry Potter and Mary Potter canon backstories. Taking the Mary Potter story 'An Intermediate Beginning' as a starting point, Lily was removed from her aunt and uncle's home after her mother was admitted to St. Mungo's, and instead fostered by one of her godmothers, a muggleborn witch who married into the predominantly pureblood Carmichael family. She was returned to the Evanses at the age of eight, when her foster-parents died in an early Death Eater attack. In the meanwhile, however, the Evanses decided to try for another child, and ended up with twins. Lily knows more about magical culture than Sev to start out, and more about her history than in Mary Potter – specifically, the names of her real parents, and the fact that she is not a muggleborn. She and Sev take a somewhat different path in their relationship and the war, which has consequences for their son when their decisions and machinations begin to come to light.

There are already cut scenes for this story, because I decided to try to re-organize the chapter structure to emphasize the parallels between Harry and Severus' lives after already having written several scenes from Lily's POV.


	9. IDP: Prologue

**The Beginning**

 **Lily – July, 1980**

"Are you sure about this, Lily Irene?"

Lily, physically and emotionally exhausted from her labor, but still only half-done with the night's work, looked up from the newborn infant cradled in her arms to frown at her friend. "You know I am."

Pandora Sage-Willow sighed deeply, as though the weight of the world was on her shoulders. "You know I don't judge you for your choices Lily Irene," ("Which _is_ why we're friends," Lily inserted.) "but that doesn't mean I _approve_ , especially of this."

"So calling the Dark to save Longbottom is fine, and you won't blame me for using necromancy or asking the Youthful Power to kill in battle, but you draw the line at a ritual to disguise my son?"

"The _why_ matters, and you know it! To save a life – or many lives – is one thing! But this… this you would do simply to hide your broken vows from your husband!"

"No, I wouldn't," the new mother snapped reflexively. Her friend gave her a look which said as clearly as any words that she was not believed. "Well, okay, I might. I daresay James wouldn't be too pleased with me if he knew, but I'm _not_ , and you know it!"

She turned back to the babe, now suckling. "He's already in so much danger, just by virtue of being my son – can you imagine how much worse it would be if they knew who sired him? I – James would forgive me, I think, in the end – and even if he didn't, I can take care of myself. But how do you think he would react if he found out that he had been protecting a cuckoo-child? Do you think he would allow Severus Snape's bastard to live under his roof? Sev can't take care of a child in his circumstances – he can barely pass messages without drawing undue suspicion. That Fucker would kill both of them in an instant! Or worse, give him to Bellatrix!

"And," she reminded her friend irritably (for they had already discussed Pandora's reservations more than once), "how do you think Dumbledore and the rest of the Order would react if they found out that I'd 'been having an affair' with a Death Eater? Never mind that I've been with Sev longer than Jamie. _You_ know he's on my side, but no one else does! No one would believe it! They'd lock me up or kick me out for fraternizing with the Enemy. And how many more lives would be lost, that might have been saved on Sev's information? I like James – we're friends and we've fought together and if it weren't for him, well… this little one probably wouldn't be here. He loves me, and I am… at least rather fond of him. But my marriage vows are really the _least_ of my concern, here.

"So _yes_ , I'm _sure_ ," she concluded, glaring at the older witch. She could tell by the resigned expression on Pandora's normally serene features that she had won. "And we need to do it before the nurse comes to, so hurry up!" The muggle nurse who had been assigned to attend the post-partum Lily had been put to sleep in the next bed, to give them time to execute this ritual in peace, before James was informed of the birth of 'his' son. They really didn't have time for this.

"Very well," Pandora finally acquiesced, fishing a white crayon from her pocket. She began to sketch a ritual diagram on the surface of a nearby table. "You have the essence of Potter?" she asked, cool efficiency belying her reservations.

Lily summoned the potion-vial, containing a shimmering, opalescent mist (alchemically extracted from a sample of her husband's blood), from the bag containing the clothes in which she had arrived to the hospital, and handed it over.

"And you know the child must be named before the ritual can be put into effect," Pandora reminded her.

Lily nodded. As firmly and solemnly as she could, she said, "I name you, my son, Seth Alexander Evans. Your mother is Lily Evans, and your father is Severus Snape. Know these names, for they are yours, given in love and by right of blood. Seth Alexander Evans, my son, be named," she repeated, laying a kiss upon the sleeping boy's brow. An intangible gust of magic gathered, swirled, and departed, leaving the baby's slightly sallow skin glowing faintly for a moment. "As it is witnessed by magic, so mote it be." The glow faded.

Pandora echoed the sealing phrase, then nodded. "Welcome to the world, Seth," she said lightly, then held out her hands for the swaddled bundle.

His mother passed him over slightly reluctantly, and she laid him on the table, in the center of the diagram. He woke with a dissatisfied cry.

"There, now, little one," the older witch cooed, cupping his cheek in her hand as Lily struggled to rise from the bed, still only an hour out of labor, even with liberal use of potions and healing spells to help her recover more quickly than the average muggle.

"Dora! You can't just lay him on the _table_ ," she objected, making her way to the two of them.

"Relax, Lily Irene! I put a cushioning charm on it," Pandora rolled her eyes, steadying her friend. "And besides, a little discomfort will be the least of his concern in a moment."

"Oh, shut up, Dora," Lily glared, before turning her attention to the babe. "For what it's worth, Seth," she said softly, "I'm sorry."

And then she began a slow Armenian chant, calling upon the Deceptive Power to steal her own son's birthright, sacrificing his name and his future as Seth Evans to usurp the Potter line, to let him appear, in every way, to be the trueborn son of James Charlus Potter.

At the appropriate moment, Pandora tipped the vial carefully to his lips, and he swallowed reflexively.

The sense of magic in the air grew heavier and more oppressive as they repeated the process again, and then a third time.

 _"Verts'rek' ir anuny, verts'nel ir apagan, dzevavorel kavi dzevavorel t'arm deghahat. Seth Alexander Evans voch' aveli, hima meky yntanik'i het, vori eut'yuny, na verts'rel!"_

The baby, no longer Seth, squirmed and screamed, but his mother was merciless, and she completed the ritual, the magic centering on him and tethering itself to him before she lifted him in her arms to soothe him.

"Hush, my darling boy," she whispered, collapsing back into the bed. "Hush now. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, baby. But it's going to be okay, now. It's going to be okay."


	10. IDP: Chapter 1

**Now: The Boy Who Lived**

 **Violet – November, 1981**

The phone rang shrilly, startling nineteen-year-old Violet Evans into wakefulness.

"Vi! Phone!" her flatmate called, moments later.

 _Who the bloody hell calls at_ (she peered blearily at her bedside clock, the alarm not set to ring for another half-hour) _half-past six in the morning!? This had better be important,_ she thought, padding barefoot into the kitchenette, yawning.

"Morning, Karen." Karen glared at her silently and held out the phone before returning to her porridge. Her flatmate was _not_ a morning person, by any stretch of the imagination. "Violet Evans," she identified herself. "May I ask who's calling?"

"Violet? Vi? Is that you? Oh, thank God!"

"T-Tuney?" Violet hadn't heard her older sister sound so hysterical since the day they had found out magic was real.

"Vi – you need to come over. I – I need you to come over today. I need to talk to you."

"Petunia? What's wrong?"

"I-I'll explain when you get here!"

"Tuney, I have to be at work in an hour and a half. Rodgers will fire me if I'm late again." Not that it would be _that_ much of a sacrifice to lose her typing position, except she did rather need the money. "Just tell me what's going on!"

"Call in sick! It's important!"

"But –"

"I'm sending Vernon to pick you up. He'll be there in an hour."

"But, Tuney –"

The dial tone cut her off. _Damn it, Petunia!_

…

By eight, instead of sitting at her desk at the Law Offices of Dean and Wilson, she was sitting at Petunia's kitchen table, trying not to break down into hysterics herself.

Lily was dead.

Lily was dead, and some _bastard_ of a wizard had just dropped her godson off on Petunia's doorstep like a foundling child in some old story.

Petunia had let her read the note that had been wrapped up in his blankets:

 _My Dear Vernon and Petunia,_

 _It is my sincerest regret to inform you that your cousin, Lily Potter, and her husband James, were killed last night. I understand that you have not been in communication with the Potters for some time. Lily told me that they had distanced themselves to try to protect you. I don't know how much she told you._

 _You may know that there is a war going on in Magical Britain. The forces of light and order wish to maintain the current status quo, protecting and welcoming muggleborn witches and wizards, such as your late aunt Matilde Harrison, into our society, while the insurgents value blood purity and see muggleborns as inferior. Their leader, who calls himself Voldemort, wishes to kill off or exile all muggleborns and has been carrying out a terrorism campaign against our government to that effect._

 _The terrorist Voldemort killed Lily and James personally. Lily enacted a very old, very strong protection on her son as she was killed, essentially sacrificing herself to save the child. It worked. When Voldemort tried to kill Harry, his curse was reflected upon himself, and his body was destroyed. We do not yet know if he is dead, but for now he is defeated._

 _Unfortunately, he had many followers, and dozens of them are still on the loose and looking for revenge. To protect young Harry, as well as your family, I have enacted wards, based on the protection Lily left her child and your family connection. He must come live with you to ensure that these wards protect you all._

 _If you should need to contact me, a letter sent to the following address will find me:_

 _Hogwarts, Office of the Headmaster_

 _c/o John Proctor_

 _11 Purley Ln_

 _South Croydon_

 _Greater London_

 _My condolences,_

 _Albus Dumbledore_

"I – I can't _believe_ this! Li – Lily… It – We hadn't talked in months, but she – she said she was just busy, with her research work, and Harry, and – and –" she stuttered.

Surprisingly, it was not Petunia, but Vernon who responded.

"S-so it's true, then? This – this wizard rubbish?" he glared impotently at the letter, perhaps understandably more preoccupied by the revelation that his wife was related to a witch than that a girl he had met only a handful of times (and whom he hadn't particularly liked) was dead.

Violet nodded, thinking of the first time she had seen her cousin do magic, making a rose bloom for her on command. Vernon didn't look much like he believed her. She wished she had something she could show – before she even finished the thought, she realized that she did. It was the work of a moment to dig the moving picture out of her wallet – little Harry playing with a toy broom, zipping through the air a foot off the ground. She passed it to the big man without a word. His blustery face went a sort of greyish color in the space of a few seconds, and he had to sit down rather quickly.

"You have to take him, Vi," Petunia insisted. "You're his _godmother_. Lily wanted you to have him, if anything happened to her."

"I – I – Of course I'll take him – but… it's just so _sudden_. And work, and oh, good Lord – I'll have to talk to Karen. And what about the – the funeral? Is this – did he _really_ just… just leave you a _letter?_ "

"H-how is this even possible?" Vernon was still staring at the picture, as though it might explode.

" _Magic_ , Vernon!" Petunia snapped, thumping a decanter and a trio of glasses down on the table. "There is no _how_ or _why_. And yes! That's all we know. Do you… still keep in contact with any of… _that_ lot?" she asked rather hesitantly.

Violet shook her head. Out of the few wizards she had met, none had been much for taking up a correspondence with the curious little cousin of their friend. Severus Snape would probably be the most likely to respond if she were to write him, but she didn't know where he was living, or how to get a message to him without one of those messenger-owls the wizards used. "I guess I could write this Dumbledore character," she suggested, trying very hard to focus on logistics.

 _Harry needs you to keep it together_ , she reminded herself. _Channel Lily. You can break down later, when all the adult business is sorted._

"What's… what's this bit about us being in danger, Pet?" Vernon asked. He had snatched the letter back while Vi was thinking of whom she might contact in the magical world, and was pouring over it desperately, as though if he read it enough times, the world might start to make sense again.

"Are there… papers, and things? A birth certificate?" Violet asked.

Petunia made an inarticulate noise of frustration. "I don't know, and _no_ , there aren't. I don't even know if he was born in a hospital! Those freaks might have had a – a _midwife_ or something!"

"Tuney!"

"Well, _sorry_ , Vi, but they _were_!"

"No, they _weren't_. Just because you didn't like them –"

"' _curse reflected… body was destroyed. We do not yet know if he is dead…'"_ Vernon muttered, cutting her off. "How can they _not know_ if he was _dead_?! If he hasn't got a body, he's got to be dead, hasn't he?!"

Dudley started crying at his father's loud, angry tone, waking Harry, who immediately asked for his mum, which nearly made Violet start crying as well.

"I'm sorry, Harry, baby… I'm sorry, your parents are gone. They're not coming back. I'm so, so sorry," she whispered, rocking him gently.

"Mum! Mum! Mum! Wa' mum!"

"No, Harry, no mum. No mum."

"What about the Carmichaels?" Petunia asked, soothing her son by shoving a binky into his mouth before doing the same to Harry.

Violet snapped at her – given the choice, she would indulge anger over grief. "If you've any idea how to get in touch with them, feel free to tell me!"

There was a knock on the door, and a young man's voice called into the house: "Hello? Pet? Dursley?"

"In the dining room, Matt!" Petunia called.

Violet glared at her, though she transferred the expression to her twin as soon as he showed his face in the doorway. They had not spoken in months: Petunia had blamed Lily and magic for their parents' deaths; Violet had blamed the people who actually killed them. Matt had sided with Petunia, and was now even more violently outspoken against magic than their older sister.

"Wotcher, 'Tunia, Dursley. What's o – _Vi_?" he cut himself off.

"Lily's dead," she told him bluntly, explaining her presence and the reason he had been called all at once.

He ran a hand through his hair, pain in his eyes, though he clearly didn't want to admit that he cared. "Blimey." He sat down next to Vernon and reached across the table to snag his twin's untouched drink, downing it in one. "How?"

"Show him the letter, Vernon!" Petunia ordered her husband.

There was a relative silence as he read, the only sound the boys' occasional whimper or babble, quickly hushed.

"So this is… Harry, then?" he asked, slowly.

The women nodded. "Found him on the doorstep this morning," Petunia added.

Matt's expression became resolute. "You have to get rid of him."

"Matthew Fredrick Evans! I am _not_ going to 'get rid of' my godson!" Her arms wrapped around him reflexively, even more tightly. He whimpered.

"You don't know what they can do, Vi! They can track things, people! He'll lead them right to your door! They'll kill you too if you keep him!"

"They will _not_! The letter says there's a ward – protection!"

"Vi! Listen to reason, would you?"

"Shut the bloody hell up, the both of you!" Vernon roared. The babies were crying again.

Petunia, who had obviously been trying to get their attention said, "Thank you, dear. We need to get in touch with one of the f – _them_. We need more information, as fast as possible. Vi, sit down." She hadn't realized that she was on her feet and two steps toward the door until her sister spoke. She blushed, but did as she was told. "Mattie, do you have any… contacts? Anyone we could…?"

He shook his head, but said, "This Proctor, in Croydon, he'd have to be one of _them_ , to pass on letters. My two pence'd be to track him down, make him lead you to the other freaks if you want to talk to them so bad. You should just chuck the kid in an orphanage or something, though. I mean – can they even do this? Is it _legal_ to drop a kid off without any papers or anything? Do you even know it's him?"

"Of _course_ it's him!" Violet snapped. "Look at his eyes!"

"They can change how things look, Vi!"

"Oh come off it, you paranoid sod!"

" _Children_ ," Petunia said warningly, in a tone that made her sound so much like their mother that Violet did a double-take. Both twins shut up.

"So what?" Vernon asked. "We just… go knock on this bloke's front door, and ask him if he's a… a _wizard_?"

"Got a better idea?" Matt asked after a moment.

They had to admit, they didn't.

…

Twelve hours, a drive up to Croydon, several 'flue calls', and a trip to the magical bank later, Violet's head was spinning. The old wizard they had talked to – that Albus Dumbledore, who had written the letter – he had been rather upset with Petunia and Vernon for not simply following his instructions to take in the child. Matt had been paranoid about them being forced to do so, or having their memories altered, though the wizard had insisted that he would never do such a thing to a 'muggle'. Violet had demanded that the wizards give her a copy of whatever papers Harry had – a birth certificate, hopefully, or at least _something_ that she could show the government to prove that she had a right to the child – and the wizard had ordered Proctor – the one who owned the house – to take them to Gringott's (a bank of sorts) to see whether Lily had kept a copy of the papers in her vault. The house, apparently, had been largely destroyed, and what was left was a sealed crime scene.

Violet had started crying at the reminder that Lily was dead, and when they (Proctor, Petunia, Vernon, Matt, her, and Harry, but not Dudley, who had been left safely in the care of the Dursleys' neighbor) had finally reached the bank, Vernon had nearly had a heart attack when faced with its employees – _goblins_.

He and Petunia had left very quickly, demanding that Proctor take them back to the normal world. Matt stayed to guard Violet against the creatures, though all he really did was make a huge fuss when they demanded a drop of blood from both Harry and herself to verify that they were who they said they were, and authorize access to Lily's vault. He made a show (when they were done) of burning the scraps of bloodied parchment with his pocket lighter so that they couldn't do anything else with it. What 'anything else' might have been, Violet had no idea, but the goblins seemed vaguely amused by his paranoia, rather than offended, so she didn't object.

After what seemed like an awfully long wait, the creatures delivered a heavy, old-fashioned folder containing, among other things, a _much_ longer and more informative letter to Violet – practically a novella, at forty-eight hand-written pages – and Harry (Henry James) Potter's papers, both the ones she would have expected and a few obviously magical ones she wouldn't have known to look for. The letter started with: ' _If you're reading this, Vi, then I am dead, and Harry has been placed in your care. There are a few things you will need to know, about the war and about my world, which I have never been at liberty to discuss…'_ and ended with ' _I'm sorry to have to ask this of you, and I cannot, and will never be able to thank you enough for agreeing to do it. All my love to you and Harry – Lily'_

The folder also contained a deed and a key to a fully-furnished three-bedroom house in Kensington, and a very fancy-looking document which apparently authorized Harry's guardian a monthly allowance from the Potter Trust Vault to take care of the boy. Violet carefully shuffled _that_ to the bottom of the pile. She understood that the Potters had had money, and that James had wanted his son taken care of, as much as Lily had, but she wasn't in a good state to think about the fact that that allowance was more than her salary at the moment. And they had _given her a bloody house_. Well, Harry, technically, but _still_!

The only thing was, she would have to move in there immediately, according to the letter. The house was protected – warded, Lily said – against tracking spells (apparently Matt hadn't been paranoid about those) and scrying, and all manner of other wizardly nonsense that Violet hadn't understood. The only wizard who ought to be able to find her there was Severus Snape, and, Lily noted, she doubted he would be a frequent visitor. She was to trust no other wizards, including Albus Dumbledore, whom Lily referred to as a meddling old goat.

Violet almost started crying again, the relief was so great when she realized that the biggest logistical problems of her taking on Harry's guardianship had already been taken care of – including the ones she hadn't known were going to be problematic. Until Harry received his letter from Hogwarts at eleven, they both could have a relatively normal life – certainly a better life than she had had, growing up, as far as the money went. And they didn't need to worry about terrorists attacking them or magic (except the accidental sort, maybe) or work or _anything_.

If Lily hadn't had to die to bring the situation about, it would have been perfect.

Long after Harry was bedded down for the night, Violet collapsed onto her new sofa, the pages of the file scattered about her as she read through the letter yet again. Tears blotted the messy calligraphy as she tried to come to terms with the new reality of her life.

 _Tell Harry what you think he needs to know of this, when you think he's old enough to understand. I trust you, Vi. I know you'll do right by my little boy. He will have to return to my world eventually, but until he does, I know you'll keep him safe and give him a loving home, just as your parents once did for me…_

 **Then: The Lost Girl**

 **Jenny – July, 1961**

"Please, Mrs. Evans," Jenny said, staring at the bright-eyed babe in the other woman's arms. "I know she's family to you, but… she's bound to be a witch – she will have to join my world, Matilde's world, eventually. Think how many advantages she would have, growing up surrounded by magic! And it would be much easier for you, too, not having to deal with accidental magic."

Mary Evans, nee Harrison, frowned. "Mrs. Carmichael, you have to understand, Lily has become a part of our family over the past year. Petunia would be devastated if –"

Jenny cut her off. "Imagine how Petunia will feel when her little sister shows signs of a power she will never experience, when she gets whisked off into a land of fairy stories and castles and magic that Petunia will never see." She took a deep breath and prepared to be ruthless. "It's only been nine months; I can still remove the memory charms Matilde placed on Petunia and your husband. Your daughter is _five_ , Mrs. Evans. She will adjust much better to losing her sister now than she would if Irene was slowly pulled away from her in ten years. I'm begging you, let me end the lie now, rather than drag it out to become far more painful years down the line."

Mary was crying, now, and Irene – Lily – was looking at her with concern, reaching for the tears on her face as she hugged her close. Jenny waited patiently for the older woman to reach a decision, peeking in on Petunia and Geoffrey, her elder son, in the meanwhile. They were still playing quietly in the living room. Nicolas, only six months old, had been left at home in the care of the Carmichael elves. She stood in the doorway to the kitchen, watching the children and hoping that Mary would decide to do the right thing, and let Jenny take custody of Irene. When she heard the sound of the muggle clearing her nose, she turned back.

"Lily," she said, her voice strained. "Lily is the last piece of Matilde I have left."

Jenny was fairly certain she felt her heart break a little, at that. "She was like a sister to me, too, Mrs. Evans… Mary."

"Would – would you bring her back to visit?" she asked with a sniff, and Jenny knew she had won.

" _Of course_ I would," she assured the older woman. "Every holiday, if you like."

Mary nodded. "I – just don't let her forget us. We're family – it took far too long for me to find Matilde again, after, well… you know about our parents?"

Jenny nodded. The Harrisons had been the worst sort of muggles, chucking their witch daughter out for the 'sin' of having magic.

"It seems like Matilde and I had only just re-connected, and then I thought she had died, and now she's gone again," she explained thickly, more tear threatening to fall.

Jenny nodded again. It seemed she was always bringing bad news to Mary Evans – first that her sister was missing and dead, and then, only a year and a half later (after it turned out that she had died on the operating table and been resuscitated by muggle medicine) that she was functionally comatose and unlikely ever to recover. And now she was trying to take back the child Mary had gone out of her way to make a part of her family.

But she was certain it was the best thing for Irene. She had almost talked herself into allowing the child to remain with her muggle family – had almost convinced herself that it would be fine for Irene to grow up ignorant of her magical heritage, and join the magical world at age eleven, like any muggleborn – like her mother and Jenny herself had done. But she hadn't quite managed it, and so here she was.

"Okay," Mary sniffled, stepping closer and passing the year-old infant across to her.

"Okay?"

Now it was Mary's turn to nod. Jenny gave her the most understanding smile she could muster.

"Okay, then. If you don't mind keeping Geoff and Irene occupied for a bit, I'll reverse the charms on Petunia – let her think that her cousin is going to live with her father's relatives, now."

"Is she? Are you? Do you know who her father is?" Mary asked suddenly.

Jenny grimaced. "No. There are ways to find out, though, and believe me, if it is at all possible, he will be held accountable for his actions."

"What do you mean?"

"You – she didn't tell you?" the witch answered awkwardly.

"Tell me what?"

"Oh… well… Irene was conceived in… the attack. The one that left her in hospital." _Please don't make me elaborate_ , she hoped desperately.

Thankfully Mary seemed to understand. "O-oh. No. She – she didn't say." They stared at each other awkwardly for a long moment, before the muggle broke the silence. "I'll just, um… go get Petunia, then." She held out her hands for Irene, and disappeared into the living room. Petunia returned in her place a moment later.

"Hi, Mrs. Carmichael. Mummy said you wanted to talk to me!" she said brightly, taking a seat at the table.

"I suppose I did," she sighed, and pointed her wand at the child. " _Dormire!"_

It was so much easier to modify memories when the subject was asleep.


	11. IDP: Interlude 1

**Now: At First Glance**

 **Severus – July 1985**

 _9 January 1981_

 _Dear Severus,_

 _Happy birthday from beyond the grave!_

 _I decided today that I would leave my journals to you, thus I suppose you may think of everything written from here on out as having been written with you in mind. I know if you were here in person, you would malign me for being so morbid as to be thinking of my death on your birthday, or perhaps for not having made arrangements to send a final message to you sooner, but it seemed somewhat appropriate at the time._

 _To be precise, you should be receiving two copies of my journals – the originals and the back-ups – unless the originals are somehow destroyed. I leave to you the task of editing one of these copies and passing it on to Harry when you feel the time is right. I suppose the longer you wait, the less you will have to edit, but I should like to think that you would share my words and my work with our son as soon as possible._

 _After all, if this book ends up in your hands, it means that my baby never really got to know me._

 _I probably ought to address the topic of Harry directly. If you're reading through from the beginning, which, knowing you, you have done, you'll already be aware that Harry is, biologically, your son. I am sorry that I never told you. I believed that he would be safer, at least for the duration of the war, if James was believed to be his father. After all, the last scion of Potter will have more defenders than the impure bastard of a couple of half-bloods, one of whom was on the wrong side, no matter who wins in the end._

 _(If I die before That Bastard, though, you have to find a way to kill him for me. I'm serious. Even if he's like, the Immortal Emperor of Magical Britain. You always did like a challenge, right?)_

 _The ritual I used to change our son's appearance was weak – I sacrificed only his name and the person he might have been to take on another in its stead, and neglected the blood-adoption aspect, as it seems best to keep our options – and his – open at this time._

 _(Plus it seems a little ridiculous to be planning many years into the future when I cannot even guarantee our survival_ _one_ _year into the future…)_

 _The magic will last thirteen years, and then break down over a period of six months or so. Perhaps if you and James were more similar in appearance (like he and Black, for instance), this would be slow enough for the changes to go un-noticed by most, or written off as puberty. As it is, the changes have been rather drastic, and I am afraid that it will become quite obvious that Harry's appearance is changing sometime between Mabon and Samhain of 1993._

 _Aside from the issue of appearances, I have made arrangements for Harry's guardian to be gifted a safe-house. Black is Harry's godfather, and also our Secret Keeper, so to be frank, there is little chance that he will ever become Harry's guardian – he would die before he let harm come to us. Harry's godmother is my cousin Violet – I can imagine the face you are making now – stop it – just because she's a muggle doesn't mean she won't have Harry's best interests at heart, and she's only two years younger than us, and she's well out of the war. I trust her to raise him well. You are keyed into the wards at the safehouse. If I've done it right, you should even be excepted from the anti-scrying wards. You would not_ _believe_ _how difficult that was – or maybe you would, if you didn't just skim over the twenty pages of arithmancy pertaining to the problem a ways back…_

The 'letter' went on for several more, painfully bright and cheerful pages, but Severus was unable to concentrate well enough to focus on their words.

He had a son.

 _He and Lily_ had a _son_.

And she had never told him.

He was disguised as a _Potter_ – nearly six years old, now – and he had never met him.

 _Dark Powers_ , he realized, the strangest thoughts coming to him in the midst of what he thought might have been genuine shock. My son _is the famous Harry Potter_.

 _Fuck._

 _Just… fuck._

He re-read the last paragraph he had comprehended again. Harry, _his son_ , was with Violet. He remembered Violet. Contrary to Lily's assumption, he was not making a face at the fact that she was a muggle – he could see the sense in hiding the boy with muggles, and she was by far a better choice than _Petunia_. (That was twice, at least, that she had made false assumptions about his behavior, for he had not read straight through the journal, but had opened it first to the book-mark she had left in place, reading the letter before anything else.)

The Violet Evans he remembered was a skinny, gangly kid, wide-eyed and credulous, curious about the world, and in love with the idea of magic. She had always seemed _so_ much younger than Lily, tagging along after the two of them, those last few years in Cokeworth. He couldn't imagine her as a mother, but then, he couldn't imagine Lily as a mother, either, or himself as a father.

He realized he was still staring blankly at the book, lost in thought, and set it aside, carefully, deliberately.

He had to find him. His son. Harry.

It was _necessary_.

He had already been absent from his child's life for its first five years – three longer than necessary – because he had been unable to face the reality of Lily's death and open the books she had left him. He hadn't dared allow himself to read them while he still thought of her every day, actively mourning – this was the first time he had… He had been so _stupid_ – had he but known years ago…

He was standing and striding toward the door before he realized he had made the decision to go, and now.

He stopped, briefly, to grab a broom, and again at the edge of the wards, to perform a seeking spell. Then he was gone, following the sense of direction and purpose it gave him to a moderately-sized, apparently muggle house.

Violet Evans hadn't changed much in the past – Dark Powers, it must have been ten years, at least, since he had last seen Lily's muggle family. The younger girl had barely been a teenager, then. She still had a long face with a thin, too-wide mouth (currently set in an expression of disapproving anger); wisps of strawberry-blonde escaping the braid that trailed over her right shoulder; and a penchant for mismatched, too-bright colors that would not have looked out of place on Albus Dumbledore. She had grown up, though, he noted with a second glance: not only were there subtle, feminine curves under her flowered blouse and long hippie skirt, but she was wearing sensible shoes and had an air of businesslike purpose about her that she had never had as a child.

"Severus Snape," she said, her voice cold, arms crossed, blocking the doorway rather than inviting him to enter. "I've been expecting you."

"Vi – Miss Evans," he corrected himself with a stutter. "Is – is it true? I – Lily and I – our… we had – have – a son?"

And at that the frigid anger that had been practically rolling off of her melted away. "You… you didn't know? Bloody hell… She said she'd tell you – my letter, she said she left you one, too… Oh, Sev, I'm so sorry. Come in."

The half-hour that followed was one of the most surreal of Severus' life, sitting down to tea with the muggle woman and explaining himself and his absence, hearing the stories of his son's early childhood, from his first accidental magic to his excitement for kindergarten. He had, apparently, arrived during 'nap time,' conveniently giving the adults time to talk… until they were interrupted by the terrified sobs of a very young child who has just woken from a nightmare, and a dark-haired boy, rubbing his eyes, wandering into the sitting room.

"Aunt Vi? I tried to make her stop crying, but she wants _you_ ," he mumbled, clearly still sleepy.

Violet sighed. "All right. Harry, this is… this is…"

"Severus," Severus interrupted. They hadn't actually gotten around to discussing what was to be done with the child, now, and how to introduce him, but he knew, instinctively, that he did not want his first introduction to his son to be held with a screaming child just out of sight, rushed and sudden, with the boy half asleep.

"Severus," Violet agreed. "I'll go check on Sarah, love. Maybe you can keep Severus company for me?"

The boy, _Harry_ , nodded eagerly, taking stock of the remains of their tea. "Can I have a biscuit?"

"Just _one_ ," his aunt answered, ruffling his messy hair as he hopped up on a chair and helped himself.

And then she was gone, and Severus was left, face to face and all alone with the boy who was, supposedly, his son, though he looked, for all the world, like James Potter in miniature, with Lily's eyes.

He stared, dumbstruck, as the child crunched happily at his treat, making a mess out of the crumbs. He shook shaggy bangs out of his eyes, and Severus caught a flash of red – an unhealed scar, marring his forehead.

When the biscuit was gone, the child finally deigned to take notice of him, between longing glances at the remaining food. "Can I have another one?" he asked, finally.

Severus startled, taken aback by the request. "Violet said one," he answered, attempting to moderate his usual stern tone.

"I could tell her you took it," Harry said, with a look that might pass for cunning in a five-year-old.

The young wizard found himself… amused. "Would she believe you?"

"She would if you told her."

"And why would I do that?" Severus asked, curious to see where this logic would take them.

Harry gave him a winning smile. "'Cause I asked nice?"

Despite his appearance, he clearly was Lily's child. "I don't do favors for strangers," he replied gently, almost teasing.

The boy immediately stuck out his hand. "I'm Harry. Harry Potter."

Severus shook it gently. "Severus Snape. How do you do."

Harry echoed him, then added, "Now we're not strangers…"

The dark young man laughed, though he was fortunately spared disappointing his son by the reappearance of Violet, following a now-energetic girl who could not have been much more than two years old, and who immediately attempted to climb into her cousin's lap. He hadn't even noticed when the crying stopped, he thought, kicking himself for his inattention.

"Rats," Harry grumbled, on seeing his aunt, which immediately made her suspicious.

"Harry," she suggested, "why don't you and Sarah go play in your room while Severus and I talk about grown-up things?"

"O _kay_ ," he grumbled. "C'mon, Sarah. Bye, Sev'rus."

"Farewell, Harry," he managed to respond, before the boy disappeared with a negligent wave.

Violet stared after them for a moment before she asked, with the smallest of smirks, "What did he do?"

"Do?"

"I know that look," she grinned. "He did something that made you think of Lily. What was it?"

Severus quickly locked his expression into a less-revealing mask. "I don't know what you're talking about," he lied, then changed the subject. "You're married?"

She laughed. "No. Seeing someone fairly seriously, though. Charlie. He'll be home in an hour or so, if you'd like to stick around and meet him." His (hypocritical) judgment of her for having a two-year-old daughter out of wedlock must have shown somehow, or perhaps she was too-accustomed to having to explain, because she added, "Sarah's mother died soon after she was born."

He nodded, at a loss as for what to say to continue the conversation. Thankfully, it seemed Violet was not.

"I've… I've been expecting this day to come for… for a long time, now, you know." He raised an eyebrow at her. "You – you can't take him."

Until that moment, he hadn't even been considering the prospect. He lived at Hogwarts, for the love of Magic! He worked eighty hours or more most weeks, under the thumb of a manipulative old coot, to whom he was _still_ avowed in service because his _other_ insane, overly-powerful master apparently wasn't quite dead – all appearances to the contrary. The entire world of Magical Britain knew him as a notorious double agent: he was trusted by no one entirely, and he had a great many enemies who would target his son simply for _being_ his son, if not for the fact that he was also _Harry FREAKING Potter_.

Now, though, he responded contrarily, almost out of habit. "I _am_ the boy's father, Violet!"

"I… I know that. It's just… he's _happy_ here, Sev. And well… legally, I'm not sure you are." He narrowed his eyes at her. "If I've understood her letter, well… Lily named James as his father. She did some kind of – of ritual, put him under a spell so that no one would know otherwise. It will break when he turns thirteen. But until then… until then, you're _not_ his father."

Severus tramped down the fury that rose as she sat across from him, sipping awkwardly at cold tea and calmly explaining that he had no place in his son's life. "Lily – Lily would have wanted me to be involved. She – You _know_ how much she hated her own father for abandoning her!" She had hated him for other reasons later, when she learned who he grew up to become, but when they were young, she had thought Tom Riddle the worst sort of man simply for abandoning his unborn child and her mother without a word.

Violet was quiet for a long moment, staring into her teacup as though its reflective surface was a lifeline. When she finally raised her head, it was with a stubbornness in her eye to rival Lily at her worst. "I do. And I know she wanted to… to give you the chance to be involved. She made it so you could find us, here. But she knew you. She wrote that she didn't think you could take care of a child." He tried to interrupt, but she talked straight over his objections. "Not that you wouldn't want to, or that you _shouldn't_ , but that you _couldn't_ , because of the war and your circumstances. She didn't think you would visit often, even. She wanted us – me – to raise Harry away from your world, away from the war, and tell him about what had happened, about what she wrote, when he was old enough to understand. She wanted him to grow up _happy_ and _loved_ and _safe_ , and by God, I will see that he does!"

His first instinct, engrained through long years of conflicts with Gryffindors and Death Eaters alike, was to menace her, escalate the fight, demand that she hand over his child – to whom she had no right. But he didn't. He was nothing if not good at keeping his temper – any spy who couldn't, well… he would have been dead in a fortnight. He knew he did not truly wish to win this fight. There was truth in her words, when she said that Lily had known he could not take care of a child. It was only a kindness to say it was only for his circumstances – he was not suited to fatherhood; it was just as true now as it had been five, six years before. Still, there was one point he could not allow to pass unchallenged. "Do you think I would not love my son?" he hissed. "Lily's son?"

Her eyes softened. "Of course you would. How could you not? But there are those in your world who would not – who would hate him, for his mother's memory – and the other side would hate him for you. He deserves a normal life."

"He deserves _magic_!" Severus snapped, thinking of his own childhood.

Violet recoiled as though he had slapped her. "It's not like we're planning on _keeping_ it from him! How could we? We're just… waiting until he's old enough to understand before we tell him. I do understand how the Statute of Secrecy works, Sev! He's going to go to a muggle school, so we can't tell him until he's old enough to understand the importance of keeping it a secret."

The wizard reined in his temper in the face of her reasonable response, restricting his next sally to: "He won't get to have a _normal_ life, anyway."

The muggle glared at him. "You know what I mean, Sev! I'm not my sister, or my brother. Happy! Healthy! Well out of your stupid world and its stupid wars and prejudices, despite you and Lily being stupid enough to bring a child right into the middle of it! Just because he's a wizard doesn't mean he can't have a _normal_ childhood."

"What – no," Severus sputtered, then pinched the bridge of his nose, warding off a tension headache. "It's not _that_ – It's… He's _Harry Potter_." Violet gave him a pale imitation of her lost cousin's most skeptical look. "He's… They call him the _Boy Who Lived_. He's… he's fucking famous, Lettie, because he didn't die, and the Dark Lord did – or, well, vanished, anyway. He's in _history books_." He allowed himself an inarticulate noise somewhere between a sigh and a groan. "You're… you're right. I know it – I just…"

"Wait – what?" The woman looked rather startled, doubtless at the fact that he had so easily capitulated.

"Oh, stuff it, Violet. I won't say it again. I can't take him. Even if I could, I… I shouldn't. I'd have to disguise him somehow, and I can't care for a child while I'm at that thrice-accursed school, and," he laughed humorlessly, "I really shouldn't even be here. If Dumbledore finds out… _when_ Dumbledore finds out…"

"He knows."

" _What_?"

"He knows that Harry lives with me, and not Petunia. He came around to set up some fancy blood wards of some sort, to protect Harry outside of the house, though we still use the amulets Lily left for us, too, so no one can locate him by magic when we go out. We haven't seen Dumbledore, or any other wizard, for that matter, in years. He wasn't very happy that we made him change his plans," she explained. "But you don't need to worry about leading him here."

"No, not _that_ ," Severus scowled. "If he knew that Harry is my son, or even that I cared about him any more than any other random child… He would use him against me. It is not even a question of whether, but when."

Violet was frowning now, too. "Surely he isn't _that_ bad?"

Severus simply glowered at her. "I cannot visit. I live under constant surveillance for fear that I will find some way to turn on the old goat, and that surveillance is near total, as I both live _and_ work in the _magical castle_ of which he is the lord and master."

Pity skimmed across her features, fleeting, but present. "Oh."

"Oh, indeed," he sneered. "I should go, before anyone realizes that I have gone, perhaps make a quick stop somewhere as an excuse…" he trailed off, already considering the necessary elements of a quick alibi. "I am sorry, but I find I am obliged after all to leave my son in your care, Violet." Almost to his surprise, he realized he _was_ sorry, too.

She reached over and squeezed his nearer hand gently. "It's okay, Sev. We'll take care of him, you know."

He nodded stoically. "I'll set up a method for you to contact me if necessary and owl you the details…"

Violet nodded and changed the subject with the Gryffindorish bluntness the Evans girls had always had in common, ignoring his need to leave: "Did you say Harry's in _history books?_ And what did you mean when you said _he_ just vanished? I thought he was dead! Lily – I thought she died to _kill_ the bastard!"

Perhaps it was just as well: He did not know when he would again manage to escape the Headmaster's watchful eye. He probably should fill her in as much as possible before he left: any excuse he could come up with to explain his absence now would stretch to another hour or two. But now that he knew his son was, indeed, safe – now that he had seen the boy for himself, and the immediate decision of what to do with the child was made – he was able to think once again. Lily hadn't, apparently, managed to kill the Dark Lord with her death, but he realized as her cousin spoke that she might have left Severus some insight into exactly how she had _stopped_ him.

Perhaps, he thought, with the first flash of hope he had felt in a very long time, with the help of her journals, he could figure out how, exactly, the Dark Lord had survived after all…

"If only," he addressed Violet's question distractedly. "He's definitely _gone_ , but there are certain signs that point toward his not having been completely destroyed."

The muggle's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Go on."

Severus really did _not_ want to have this conversation. "How much do you know about… about the war, and specifically… my role in it?"

"More than you wish I did, I'd wager," she admitted. "Lily – her letter said you became one of _them_. She didn't say _why_."

The former Death Eater pinched the bridge of his nose again. "I was young and angry, and very, very stupid. It was simple, really, though it seemed very complicated at the time: I did it to protect her. I would have done _anything_ to protect her."

It was true: He had been courted on his own merits as a young potions prodigy, and he had excelled among the Dark Lord's followers on the strength of his intelligence and his ability to dissemble. But he would have held out against joining them if they had not threatened Lily. She had been his one true weakness, after all, his first friend and only love. He sometimes thought he had been doomed, somehow, the moment he realized she was a witch.


	12. IDP: Chapter 2

**Then: You're a witch.**

 **Severus – January, 1969**

Severus Snape tromped through the icy slush that had taken over his drab, muggle neighborhood, headed to the park. No one else was out, which was the way he liked it. It meant he didn't get any strange looks to go with his strange clothing, and no worried strangers saying things like, _if you need a place to go, son, the church is always open…_

It was very cold, and he was under-dressed for the weather, but he could think of worse ways to spend his ninth birthday. Like being at home, with his parents, who were both drunk at the moment, neither one of them in a state to remember that it was an important day. Hell, if it came down to it, he supposed it wasn't really _that_ important. Nine wasn't a very special age, after all. If he was eighteen, or even seventeen, in the magical world, he could look forward to being an adult. If he was thirteen, well, he'd be a teenager, for all the good _that_ did him. His mum had done a little ritual on his seventh birthday, but there wasn't anything like that for the ninth.

 _Bother_ , he thought, making his way toward the climbing structure, which at least blocked some of the wind. He had wanted to be alone, but it seemed the red-headed girl was back. Lily. She didn't live too far away – he had heard her mother calling her home on several occasions. She always sat alone, on the swings, and he had never talked to her, but it was hard not to notice another person as solitary as himself. He had noticed her at school, as well. She had to be new in town, since she had joined him at St. Gertrude's the week before, in a different classroom, but the same year, he thought.

Today, she was actually swinging, instead of just sitting and staring off into space. She was going so high he was surprised the posts weren't jerking and wobbling, and little flurries of snow were following her back up from the ground. Suddenly, she let go, right at the top of her swing, so fast she actually went _up_ a few more feet before she fell – no, _floated_ back to the ground, surrounded by equally slow-falling snowflakes.

Severus gaped at her. _She_ can't _be_ , he thought, all disbelieving.

He must have made some sort of noise, because she whirled to face him, startled and quickly going red. He stepped toward her uncertainly, and she ran, as though the hounds of hell were chasing her.

 _Well_. That certainly solved the problem of the fact that he had wanted to skulk alone, with no witnesses to his pathetic lack of birthday celebrations, even if they didn't know it was his birthday at all, but it was a hell of a reception, a girl _running away_ from him like that.

But then, he realized, if _he_ had got caught doing accidental magic in front of a muggle – or thought he had – he probably would have run, too.

So, he decided, he would just have to find a way to let her know he _wasn't_ a muggle.

Happy birthday to me, he thought sarcastically, but he was, secretly, ever-so-slightly pleased. At the very least, he was curious, and now he had a project to work on.

…

It took another two weeks before he managed to catch up with her. She was faster than he thought, and had a knack for never being alone, _ever_ , even if she still didn't really _talk_ to anyone, which made it incredibly difficult to talk to _her_ about something like magic. He finally cornered her by following her home from school one day, and waiting until her mother ( _Aunt_ , he mentally corrected himself, recalling an overheard exchange) asked her to take out the trash.

"Lily!" he said, popping up from his hiding place, behind her father's ( _Uncle's_ ) car.

She let out a very girly scream and dropped the bag. It burst, of course.

"No, no, sorry – stop screeching like a bloody banshee!"

"What do you want?!" she asked tremulously. "Why have you been following me?"

"I –" Severus hesitated. "I saw you, at the park…" he explained weakly. Somehow, he hadn't quite thought this part of the interaction through.

"I don't know what you think you saw," she said coldly, shoveling scattered food-scraps back to the bag with a broken tea-saucer. "But you _didn't_. There's nothing you could've seen that's interesting enough to bother stalking me for weeks!"

He approached cautiously, and began helping her to pick up the larger bits of paper and foil. "I, um… there really is," he corrected her. "I, ah… don't know if you know this, but you're a witch."

She froze. "There's no such thing as witches," she said, but he could tell she didn't really believe it.

He smirked. "Sure there are. My mum's one. And I'm a wizard," he added proudly.

"Prove it," she demanded, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"What – how am I supposed to do that? I don't have a wand yet, and there's no way in hell I'm going to kiss your hand after we've been picking up rubbish! I suppose I could make a potion, but that's not very fast, and I don't know where to get half the things I'd need…" he trailed off helplessly.

She bit her lip, obviously failing to hide a grin. "Okay, I believe you. Lily Evans-Carmichael. You can call me Lily."

"Severus Snape. I suppose you can call me Severus."

"I had no idea there were other magicals about," she said quietly.

He shook his head, helping her heave the torn bag into the bin. "It's just me and my mum. Da's a muggle. That's half the reason I wanted to meet you – I don't know any other wizards or witches either. You're not muggleborn, are you? No, you must not be, if you know about muggles." He was only a little disappointed at that. He had been imagining himself teaching her all about the magical world. But if she knew more than he did, he wouldn't be opposed to learning more about magic from her, instead.

"No, my parents were both magical, but they died a long time ago, and then my guardians died last Samhain, so I'm living with my Aunt Mary, now. She knows about magic, but none of the rest of them do," she explained, nodding at the house. "They're all muggles."

"Lily?" a familiar voice called from the house.

"Gotta go!" she said immediately. "We'll talk at school!"

She was gone before he could respond, hurrying back to the lighted doorway, and explaining before she even reached it that she had just been startled by a cat and dropped the bag. He grinned to himself. There was something appealing about the idea of being Lily Evans' secret magical friend.

 **Now: Does that mean I'm a wizard?**

 **Harry – July, 1988**

"All right, what kind of story do you want tonight?" Aunt Violet asked, as the three of them piled into Harry's bed, Sarah on Aunt Violet's lap. Sarah was only four, and would most likely fall asleep long before Harry or the end of the story, so she got to sit there, easier to pick up when the story was over, but Aunt Violet always kept one hand free to play with his hair as he drifted off as well.

"Princesses!" Sarah demanded.

"No! Motorbikes!" Harry objected.

"No! Castles! And magic!"

"Yeah, magic!"

Aunt Violet laughed. "Okay, okay. It just so happens I do know a story about Castles and Magic. There's no princesses or motorbikes," (Both children groaned.) " _but_ it's a very special story – do you want to know why?"

"Why? Why?" they begged in concert.

"Because this story is _true_. It all started a long time ago, when I was just a little younger than Harry – the year I turned six."

"I'll be _eight_ soon," Harry reminded her.

"I know, love. We'll have a party."

"Storytime!" Sarah demanded.

Aunt Violet petted her hair to quiet her. "When I was six years old, I lived in a little house with your Aunt Petunia and Uncle Matt and Grandmum Mary and Grandpapa Fred, the five of us in this tiny little house, in a town called Cokeworth on the River Trent."

"Aun' P'tunia?" Sarah asked.

"You've never met her, sweetheart, nor Matt, and my parents are long gone."

"That's sad," the girl said solemnly. Harry nodded. He knew Aunt Violet had a brother and a sister, but he had never met them, either.

"It's not a happy story, honey. True stories rarely are."

"You don't have to tell us if it's sad," Harry told her.

She ruffled his hair. "I'll stop at a happy part. When I was six, my cousin, Lily, came to stay with us."

"My mum!"

"Yes, love, your mum. She was two years older than me, and very pretty, with red hair, darker than mine, and bright green eyes like Harry's here."

"You're pretty, too," Harry said loyally, as Sarah peered at his eyes.

"Aww, you'll be a real hit with the ladies someday, Harry," Aunt Violet smiled. Harry didn't get it, but he smiled back. "Lily was very sad, at the time. She lived with her godparents before –"

"Like me!"

"Yes, hon, just like you. But unlike you, her godparents were killed. There was a war going on, you see. It was just starting, then. Mr. and Mrs. Carmichael died in an attack on their way home from a party, and so Lily had to come live with us, even though we had only seen her on holidays before."

"Sad," Sarah repeated.

"Are you sure this story has a happy ending?" Harry demanded.

"No, but it has a happy middle," Aunt Violet grinned, tickling his tummy.

"Stop it! Stop it!" he shrieked, laughing and rolling away.

"Then stop interrupting!" his aunt teased.

"Okay, okay! I'll stop!"

"Okay, then. So Lily came to live with us, but she spent most of her time away from the house, because it was a small house, and there were a lot of us, and she wanted to be alone, because she was sad. She had two adopted brothers, one older and one just a few months younger."

"I have other uncles?" Harry interrupted. Unlike Uncle Charlie, who was Sarah's daddy, and Uncle Matt, whom he had never met, he had never even heard of his mother having brothers.

"They died in the war as well, love, many years later. But at the time, when Lily came to live with us, they were alive, and Lily missed them terribly. Their names were Geoff and Nico. Geoff was already off at boarding school, but she worried about Nico, who was sent to live with one of the other Carmichaels.

"I was a little brat," Aunt Violet said, laughing slightly. "I kept trying to follow her around – she was so much closer to my age than Petunia, you see. I thought we should be friends just because of that. I didn't realize then that she wanted to be alone until she yelled at me one day in the park. She made friends with a boy in her class a few weeks later, and I was terribly jealous that she wanted to spend time with him and not me.

"The boy's name was Severus Snape. He was a weird, poor boy, and his family lived down by the river. She started spending all her time with him, and Matt and I couldn't figure out for the life of us why. Petunia told us it was because she felt sorry for him. But Lily must have known something we didn't, because years passed – three of them – and the summer Lily turned eleven, she was invited to go to a special school, away in Scotland: her mother's alma mater."

"W'ssat?" Sarah asked sleepily.

"It means the place her mum went to school," Aunt Violet explained. Sarah nodded. "Severus Snape was going there as well: they took a train north at the end of August, and they were gone all the way until Christmas."

"That's a long time," Harry yawned. He didn't think he'd like leaving his family for so long.

"It is," Aunt Violet nodded. "But it was important for her to go. You see, the school, Hogwarts, is not just any school. It's a great castle, away in the mountains, and it teaches one very special thing."

"What?" Harry asked excitedly.

" _Magic_."

"Magic? My mum went to a magic school?"

Aunt Violet nodded again. "Not that we knew it at the time. She came home for Christmas full of stories about her friends, and Geoff, and her teachers, but without much to say on her classes. It wasn't until she came home for the summer that we found out about _magic_."

"How did you find out?" Unlike most bedtime stories, this one wasn't making Harry sleepy _at all_ , though Sarah seemed to be completely out, now.

"Well, Lily had this trunk, you see, that she had taken to school with her, and your Uncle Matt, he was a nosey little boy, not unlike some other people I can think of," she tapped him gently on the nose, and he giggled. "Matt was curious about what she had done all year, so he sneaked into her trunk and stole a book: _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade One_."

"A magic book?"

"Yes, full of spells to make light, or to make something float, and even silly little ones, like cleaning your teeth, and brushing your hair… it might take magic to tame _your_ hair," she teased.

Harry was so entranced by the idea of magic spells that he didn't even glare at her for making fun of his always-messy hair. "What happened next?"

"Well, Petunia found me and Matt looking over the book and saying the words and trying to make things happen – not that anything did, when we tried it. She went spare and told our mum, and she made us all sit down and told us a story about her little sister, my Aunt Matilde, who had been a witch detective, and who had been murdered for asking questions about the wrong people.

"It turned out that Lily had been passed back and forth between magic and not longer than we knew. She lived with my parents and Petunia before I was even born, and then my mother let Mrs. Carmichael take her because she was a witch, and so was Lily, and she thought that it would be better for Lily to grow up with magic. But that didn't last, because of the war, and so she came back to us. Until she turned eleven, and went off to school. She was always meant to end up in the magical world, in the end, I guess.

"My mother told us that we weren't to say anything to anyone: there was a Ministry of Magic, you see, that was meant to keep magic hidden. But we couldn't hide that we knew from Lily. Petunia didn't like magic, you see. The idea that the world was so very different, really, from what she knew, bothered her. She and Lily had it out a few days later, and from then on they avoided each other and the subject of magic as much as possible when they were both at home.

"Matt and I… we thought that magic – the idea of magic being _real_ – was the best thing ever. We followed Lily and Severus around every spare second of the day. Matt was jealous. He wanted to be able to do magic himself, and when he couldn't, he pretended he didn't care even a little about its existence. I couldn't. As much as I would have liked to be able to do it, too, I couldn't pretend that I didn't love it anyway, even when I couldn't do it myself. The things she showed us…

"She had a magic wand, you know, that she could use to do all of the charms and spells in the textbook we had stolen, but she didn't need it – not for everything. She showed us little magics, every summer – making a cut rose bloom in her hand or lighting a candle with a glare. She brought us soaps that turned into frog-spawn in your hands and enchanted sweets and magical photographs – moving pictures of her life at school, and with the Carmichaels."

"Really?" Harry asked skeptically. He wanted to believe it – it sounded like she was telling the truth – but sometimes it was hard to tell. This could be like the time Uncle Charlie insisted that he was really Luke Skywalker, and had come to Earth to secretly train the next generation of Jedi, starting with Harry. Mentioning things that could be _proof_ of magic though… that was something Uncle Charlie always avoided doing when he was funning.

"Really," Aunt Violet grinned.

"Truly?"

"Truly," she laughed. Sarah muttered something in her sleep, but stilled after a few seconds. "Lily, your mother, was a witch. And James, your father, he was a wizard. They met at that magic school of theirs."

"Does that mean _I'm_ a wizard, too?" Harry asked, playing along, still hoping it was true. "If my mum and dad were, both?"

"Oh, yes, I think so," Aunt Violet said, still smiling. "In fact, I'm sure of it. You can't tell anyone, though. It's a secret."

Harry nodded, but he was torn, both about keeping the secret and believing it. Most of the time, Aunt Violet and Uncle Charlie said family shouldn't keep secrets from each other. "Does Uncle Charlie know?" he asked.

Aunt Violet nodded. "I told him after your teacher's wig turned blue last year."

He made a face. Mrs. Spencer was mean, saying nasty things about how he always looked so scruffy and unkempt. But her own hair changing colors had been very funny. He hadn't thought for a second that he had been responsible for that, though. If he had been… "Can I tell Sarah? She can't keep secrets yet, but you always say it's not right to keep secrets from your family…"

His aunt shrugged. "I think it's okay. Anyone would think she was just being silly, you know, talking about her big brother being magic. But no one outside the family, okay?"

Harry grinned. "Okay. I won't tell anyone outside the family _that I'm a wizard_."

He whispered the secret, and she leaned over to kiss him goodnight, on the forehead, right over the lightning-shaped scar that he had always had, as long as he could remember. Aunt Violet said he got it before he lived with them, and Uncle Charlie said it was the Mark of Destiny. Exactly what the destiny was depended on what movie or story was his latest favorite. Maybe it was his destiny to be a great wizard, like Merlin, or Gandalf, or Christopher Chant!

"Good boy," Aunt Violet said, hauling herself and Sarah out of the bed. "I love you, Harry."

"I love you, too, Aunt Violet."

"Sleep well, and sweet dreams, little wizard."

He nodded, grinning, and snuggled deeper into the covers as she turned off the light.

When he woke up in the morning, he thought he might have imagined it all – or dreamed it, falling asleep in the middle of a story about magic. When he found the moving photograph of his mother – dark red hair and eyes like his, waving enthusiastically at the camera – and a dark-haired, grumpy-looking boy on his bedside table, he was so excited that he let out a proper whoop before running to breakfast to show his sister and tell her _everything_.


	13. IDP: Chapter 3

**Now: Fame and Fortune Telling**

 **Harry – July, 1990**

"Happy Birth-day, dear Har-ry… Happy Birth-day to you!"

The crowd of nine and ten-year-olds burst into applause, more for the cake, Harry suspected, than for him. Despite the fact that most of the boys in his class had come to his birthday party, he wasn't very close to any of them: it was hard to _really_ be friends with someone when you couldn't tell them the most important thing about yourself, and the fact that he was a wizard was pretty darn important!

"Can I cut it, Aunt Violet?" he begged. " _Please_?"

"No, I think we'd best let Miss Polly, here, do her job," Aunt Violet suggested, waving over the roller-rink girl who had brought out the cake in the first place. Harry, seeing the size of the knife she was holding gulped and moved out of the way: on second thought, if _he_ had that big a knife, he'd probably fall on it and kill himself, because he had already tripped and crashed three different times since the party began. (Sarah, of course, hadn't at all, zipping in and out between the older boys with no trouble at all, the little show-off!)

The party broke up rather quickly after the cake was served, with parents arriving to collect their children within the hour. Harry had to see them all off, and thank them for coming, which was kind of a pain, and then Aunt Violet herded him and Sarah (and the presents from the few mothers who had ignored the 'no gifts' bit of the invitation) to the car while Uncle Charlie settled up with the man at the desk.

At least Harry could say this about being ten: having a later bedtime than Sarah for the first time ever _rocked_. He got to stay in the living room, watching telly with Uncle Charlie, while Aunt Violet carried his very grumpy, overly-tired little sister off to bed.

When she came back, the adults exchanged a heavy _look_.

"We agreed to tell him today," Uncle Charlie said firmly.

Aunt Violet made a face, but sat down beside him on the sofa, leaving Harry in his armchair to turn and face both of them. "Tell me what?!" he asked excitedly.

"Ten years old… that's an important age," she hedged. "Just one more year until you go to Hogwarts, you know."

"Yeah!" he said proudly. There had been a time, when he had first found out about magic, that he had been scared of the idea of leaving his family for months at a go, but the more he had thought about it, the more he wanted to know everything about the magical world. "One year, and one month, right?"

Uncle Charlie nodded, and Aunt Violet said, "Yes, but there's something you need to know before you go back to the magical world, and it's going to take some time getting used to."

"What is it?" he asked again, still excited.

"Harry, son," Uncle Charlie said, in a rather serious tone, "it's… this is not something to take lightly."

Harry frowned, and almost asked if he should be worried, but before he could, Aunt Violet spoke up.

"It's not really bad news," she said quickly, "but it's a little sad, and it could be a little overwhelming, too."

"O… _kay_ …"

His aunt took a deep breath. "The long and short of it is, Harry… you're famous."

"What?" Harry asked flatly. He couldn't be _famous_. That was just… ridiculous. Even more ridiculous than his being a wizard. "Is this like Uncle Charlie being a Jedi?" he asked dubiously.

"Oh, come _on_ , kid, aren't you ever going to let me live that down?"

Harry smirked and shook his head, but Aunt Violet was still being serious. "No. No, it's not like that at all. You really are famous in Magical Britain. Everyone knows your name. You're… you're in _history_ books, love."

Something in Harry's mind seemed to short-circuit at that. "Wha -? But… how? I don't understand… How can I be…? I haven't done anything… have I?"

"It's about the Mark of Destiny," Uncle Charlie said.

"It's because of how your parents died," Aunt Violet corrected him with a glare. "And the fact that you lived."

"How… how my parents died? You told me they were… in a war."

"Oh, sweetheart, they were."

 **Then: Fate and Love**

 **Severus – October, 1970**

Severus was already awake when the pebble cracked against his window. It was very late. He could still hear parties going on down the street, but all the Halloween revelers had long since retreated into their houses. He opened the sash slowly to avoid any sound, and shifted his weight carefully to the adjacent drain-pipe, shimmying down with a bag over his shoulder. How he would get back in was a mystery. His mum had been more sober, lately, teaching him about Hogwarts and the very basics of magic (mostly schoolyard hexes and jinxes) in preparation for his departure in just under a year. He liked to think it was helping her, being all excited for him to be headed off to learn magic. The only bad part was, it rather put a damper on his ability to sneak around when he pleased. He would never get away with sleeping at Lily's as he had the year before if he tried it today.

 _Well_ , he thought, almost resigned to being stuck out all night, _tomorrow_ is _Sunday_. He supposed he would just have to pretend to have gotten up extra-early, if it turned out he couldn't sneak back to bed.

"Ready, Sev?" Lily asked, bouncing slightly on her toes.

He nodded. "I got the wine and the knife."

"I've got candles, bread, salt, and water."

"Matches?"

"Magic," she countered, and they shared a grin.

"Right, then, milady," he said, gesturing down the street. "After you."

Instead of racing off, she looped her arm through his, skipping at his side. Last year they hadn't celebrated Samhain together. Lily had written to Geoff, her godbrother, asking him how she should honor his parents, her guardians who had died. Since she obviously couldn't join in the Carmichael ritual from the Evans' house, he had sent back a packet of notes on more individual celebrations. She had made up a sort of ritual in the months since its arrival, and demanded his help in performing it. He didn't know anyone who had died, except his father's parents, and he had never met them, but he wasn't about to waste an opportunity to spend more time with Lily, especially doing magic.

She had, well, _changed_ since she had arrived in Cokeworth almost two years before. She had been as quiet and solitary as him those first few months, right after she had been ripped away from her home and dropped into what she once described as the rundown little hell-hole of the Evans' house. (He gathered that the Carmichaels were rich, or at least much richer than anyone in _their_ neighborhood. Mr. Evans, after all, had a car, and could therefore still find work, which put the Evanses head and shoulders above the Snapes, even if they did have four kids to feed instead of just the one. If their house was a hell-hole, the Carmichaels must be _loaded_.) Since he had befriended her (and how strange was that, to have a friend?), she had become ever-more… alive. That wasn't the right word. Awake? She had made other friends, and all the teachers liked her, too.

He lived in mortal fear that she would, one day, decide she simply didn't care to associate with him anymore, now that she had other (better) options. Going to Hogwarts would be even worse, because he wouldn't be the only wizard she knew, which he was still convinced was half the reason she was his friend right now. She insisted that she wasn't about to abandon him, and that he was the only person who truly _knew_ her, but he wasn't convinced.

Still, it meant that he cherished every moment they spent together all the more.

She kissed her fingers, and touched them to the iron gate of the cemetery as they passed through, as she always did. She had never satisfactorily managed to explain _why_ , but he had begun copying her over the summer, when they came by to enjoy long, lazy walks with no one else around. He had since begun developing a sense for the boundaries of the enclosed space, though he wasn't sure if that was touching the gates at work, or just his increasing familiarity with the place. It might have all been in his head.

He resisted the urge to ask what they were doing as they meandered through the headstones, more reluctant to break the expectant silence than he was curious to find out what was going on, especially since he knew he would find out soon. They reached one, eventually, that was so old the carvings had all worn off. An obelisk, almost invisible with no moon, so far from the streetlights. Lily ran her hand over its rough surface reverently, then set down her bag, pulling candles out of it and setting them on the edge of the plinth. Three of them, mismatched tapers, from an odds and ends drawer, surely. Then the bread and a thermos which must contain water. He followed her lead, fetching out the knife she had demanded he filch from his kitchen (her aunt was too careful to not notice if she did it) and the wine, which had been equally easy to take from his parents, each of whom would simply assume the other had drunk it.

She smiled, unusually gently, and began to speak slowly. "We're here to honor my mother, Matilde Harrison, and my godmother, Jennifer Seymour, and her husband, Cadmus Carmichael, whose family took me in and made me one of their own. We are here to honor death and ending, the completion of cycles and the rejoining of their souls with the Deathly Power, with magic itself. We purify the space three times, with salt," (she took what was clearly the salt-shaker from her family's table, and walked a slow circle around the obelisk and Severus, sprinkling the salt behind her) "with water," (again, around the gravestone and her friend, pouring water on the dry ground and fallen leaves) "and with iron."

This time she took the knife, and physically cut an awkward, lumpy circle into the ground, which took quite a lot more time. Severus waited patiently.

"By salt and water and iron, I banish evil from this circle. I banish magic that would harm us, and I banish hateful thoughts. Let this space be cleansed, as the Veil between Life and Death grows thin."

Severus might have been imagining it, but the space within the circle did seem a little lighter, as though the air was clearer, somehow. And _colder_. He shivered.

Lily took his hand as she approached the three candles, pointing at each of them with fierce concentration. "We light these candles in remembrance of those who have gone before, and so that they might light the way should they choose to speak to us tonight. Matilde Harrison," (the first candle lit obediently) "Jennifer Seymour," (the second followed suit, albeit after a longer pause) "Cadmus Carmichael."

It took two tries, and Lily was swaying slightly by the time she got the third candle lit. It seemed to be a near thing. He squeezed her hand, steadying her, and after a moment of leaning her head against his shoulder, she began to speak again.

"We offer these sacrifices, to Death and the Dead, on this, their night: bread and wine and blood, that they might join us in celebration, to feast and make merry and feel the heat of life again."

 _Blood?_ Severus thought, slightly concerned. He said nothing, though, waiting to see where she was going with this.

The "sacrifice" took a bit more doing than any other part of the ritual, mostly because they didn't have a corkscrew, and had to dig the cork out with the knife. Severus did manage it, though, after a few minutes' work. Lily, meanwhile tore a chunk off the loaf of bread she had baked for the occasion, and laid it at the foot of the memorial. When he finally got the wine open, she soaked the bread with it, and then, before he could stop her, she grabbed the blade of the knife and pulled it from her closed fingers, allowing the resulting blood to drip onto the bread as well before digging a length of gauze from her bag and asking him silently with begging eyes to wrap it.

He complied, kneeling beside her on the ground, though he raised an eyebrow at her foolishness. She offered him the knife back, and after a moment, he took it, and jabbed his thumb with the point, summoning a few red drops to the surface.

She rolled her own eyes at his fastidiousness, then declared, "I, Lily Irene Evans-Carmichael, born of Harrison by Riddle, call to those loved and lost, across the Veil, that they might speak, if they so will. I call you by my name and yours, by shared blood spilled, and the bonds of magic and memory. Deathly Power, hear my plea; send forth a sign and let those who would, speak across the boundary of mortality as we honor their lives and their memories."

Then she elbowed him sharply in the side. He startled, not having realized that he had a speaking part, but tried to replicate her tone as best he could, despite his lack of lost relatives and ritual experience. "I, Severus Snape, son of Eileen Prince, call to any who might hear. By my blood and my name, I call across the Veil: let any who would speak to me come forth."

A cold wind gusted through the circle, carrying on it a tangle of voices, whispering indistinctly in his ears. Lily seemed to hear something clearer, however, because her eyes grew wide and she squeezed his hand so hard he thought she might break something. "Mum? Aunt Jenny? Uncle Cadmus?" The candles flickered and flared, but they didn't go out. "I – I guess I just wanted to say that, well… I miss you… Yeah, I wish you hadn't gotten caught in that attack… I know these things happen… no, Auntie, I'm not sad… Yes, ma'am. I just miss how things used to be, that's all… I know. I understand… Mum, I wish I'd got to know you. Aunt Mary and Aunt Jenny have told me stories, but it's not the same… Th-thank you, but it's okay. I know why it had to be that way... I love you, too. All of you. Thank you for visiting me! Thank you! ...Next year, I promise… I'll be at Hogwarts, yes, Uncle. I'll see you then… Good-bye!"

The voices faded away and Lily, clearly exhausted, slumped against him. He was tired, too, but he didn't think he had put as much into the ritual as she had, what with actually casting the circle and lighting the candles. He held her close, resting his cheek against the top of her head. "What did they say?"

"Couldn't you hear?"

"No, only that they were speaking, not the words."

"Mostly that they love me, and they miss me, too. Aunt Jenny says to try not to be so sad, and Mum said she was sorry she wasn't there for me. Uncle said they expect to see me at the Hogwarts ritual next year." She sighed. "I miss them so much. Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if they hadn't've died. If mum was alive, I know I'd've never lived with Aunt Jenny, and if they were alive, I wouldn't have met you, and I wouldn't _change_ it, but… I still wonder, you know?"

Severus hummed his agreement. Most of his musings went the other way, like what would have happened if his father had died when he was a baby – would the Princes have taken his mother back, and him as well? But he understood the general principle. "So what happens now?" he asked, checking her bandaged hand.

Lily yawned. "We wait until the candles go out, and then I guess try to sneak back home without getting caught. M'tired. I didn't think I'd be this tired."

Light laughter filtered through the circle. Severus' head whipped around to see a young lady, dressed in black robes, sitting on a nearby grave marker. She had light hair and fair skin, so pale she was almost glowing in the darkness. No, wait – not _almost_.

"Who are you?" he asked, too startled for politeness, as Lily shifted around as well.

She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "They call me Kore. Manea. Nungal. Irkalla. Death by many other names." The children scrambled to their feet, even as she said, "Don't get up."

"My Lady Persephone," Lily said, bowing low. (Severus mimicked her.) "To what do we owe the honor of your presence?"

The goddess hummed. "Curiosity, mostly. A good first ritual," she added, meandering closer, her progress unimpeded by the circle Lily had drawn. She reached down (Severus suddenly realized that she was _very_ tall – inhumanly so) and tilted Lily's chin back to meet her gaze. "Interesting."

"What's interesting?" Lily dared ask.

Death smirked. "You have your father's confidence, along with his eyes. And your mother's stubbornness and temperament. Your future cannot help but be interesting, I think." Severus trembled as she reached for him as well, turning his face to hers. It was surprisingly… ordinary. "Oh!" she exclaimed delightedly. "This is too perfect. Both of you full of so many delightful contradictions, and such potential. All shifting smoke and twisted mirrors, so different, and yet complimentary... Clotho did well when she wound your threads together."

Perhaps she sensed the fear in him, or else it was simply time for her to go, for she smiled again, and moved to the still-lit candles, snuffing them out with quick pinches.

"Go home, my children. Your ritual is done. I give you my blessing, _Aitoúnta,_ _Dierminéas_. Go with grace."

"Thank you, my Lady," Severus said, but the Power was already gone. Lily echoed him half a second later, anyway.

"I… wow."

"Yeah. I don't even know where to start," Lily admitted.

"Clean up?"

"Well, yeah, but _after_ that."

"Let's just take it one step at a time."

They ended up sitting on the swings, eating the leftover bread and sipping at the half-bottle of wine around the cork fragments, talking until the sun came up. Severus learned more about Lily in those few dark hours than he had in the entire year before, he was sure, listening to her talk of her dead and her family.

He finally heard the story behind her father: he had long-since known that her mother had been an Auror, but her father was some no-good scoundrel called Tom Riddle, who had knocked her mother up and then run. There was no trace of him in Magical Britain, and she was positive she was better off without him, anyway, though she didn't know anything about him, besides the fact that he had abandoned her pregnant mother.

He finally discovered why she was Evans, and not Harrison: her mother had been investigating the Knights of Walpurgis, and she, Lily, had been threatened because of it, so Matilde and Mary and Jenny had changed her name for her own safety.

He learned the whole sad story of Matilde's death: she had been cursed into a coma when Lily was just a baby, and died only a year or two before the Carmichaels. The Evanses hadn't even gone to the funeral.

In exchange, he told her, haltingly, about his own family, about his mother's exile from the House of Prince – how she had run from an arranged marriage, only to find herself lost and helpless on the muggle streets, her magic deserting her when she needed it the most. She was desperate, and destitute, and had taken up with Tobias Snape out of a desire for security. She had fallen pregnant almost at once. Tobias hadn't found out about magic until after Severus was born, and to say he hadn't taken the news well was… just a bit of an understatement. He told her about his dreams of running away, of Hogwarts, of just _going_ and never coming back to this little shithole, dying town on the banks of the River Trent.

"I'm going to make a name for myself," he said fiercely. "I'm going to make the Princes regret not recognizing me as one of them. I'm going to be _someone_ , no thanks to them."

She hopped up at that, swaying a little with the alcohol they had drunk, and, steadying herself with the chains of his own swing, leaned down to look him in the eye. "Can I come with you?" she asked.

As though he would say no? _Honestly_ … He nodded. "'Course. We'll run away together."

She grinned. "We'll _be someone_ together," she promised. "It'll be an adventure." And then, miracle of miracles, she leaned down a few inches more, and pressed her lips to his. Later, many years later, he would realize that it was the most chaste, most innocent of childish kisses, but at that moment, he nearly fell to the ground in shock.

She laughed at his surprise, the joyous sound lighting up the night even more than the first hints of dawn, creeping over the horizon, and he thought, for the first time, _I think I love her_.


	14. IDP: Cut Scenes

**Lily – December, 1968**

Irene Carmichael– or Lily Evans, or any combination thereof – sat, glowering, on the swings at the park, two streets down from her Aunt Mary's house. Right now, Uncle Cadmus' Grandmother Primrose, the Materfamilias of House Carmichael, would be telling Aunt Mary about The Attack. Aunt Jenny and Uncle Cadmus had been in the wrong place at the wrong time a month before, on Samhain. They had got caught up in one of those raids that had been happening more and more, on their way back from some Ministry party or other, leaving eight-year-old Irene orphaned for the second time in her short life.

Geoff, now eleven, and Nico, who had just turned eight as well, would be staying with one of the Carmichaels – probably Uncle Magnus. But she, Irene, had to go live with her muggle relatives instead. Grandmother Primrose had been nice enough about it when she explained – it wasn't that the Carmichaels didn't want to keep her, but Aunt Mary was her godmother just like Aunt Jenny, and had the best claim on her, even though she was a muggle, and Irene was a witch. Which she supposed meant that she had better get used to being called Lily, instead of Irene, because for some reason, Aunt Mary had always called her Lily, even though Aunt Jenny said that her mother had called her Irene.

Call on the Dark, there it was: Aunt Mary shouting, "Lily!" from the front porch, demanding that she return to the house – home, now, she supposed. She didn't much feel like putting up with Aunt Mary being all supportive and _are you all right?_

But she didn't exactly have much choice.

As soon as she walked through the door, Petunia enveloped her in a hug, before passing her over to Aunt Mary and Uncle Fred. The twins, Matt and Violet, hung back from the crowd. Irene didn't blame them. They were shy, and everyone was being _awfully_ emotional.

She had loved Aunt Jenny and Uncle Cadmus, too, but she wasn't _sad_ , she was _angry_.

The thrice-cursed Death Eaters had taken her family from her _twice_ , and no amount of crying was going to bring them back.

Unfortunately, the grown-ups hadn't liked it when she told them that. They had exchanged worried looks, and quickly changed the subject. Geoff had been at Hogwarts, and had only been allowed to come home for the funeral itself; if he had been there, she suspected that the adults would have foisted her off onto him, but as it was, she was largely ignored in the weeks after The Attack, while everyone focused on Nico. He was six months younger than Irene, very much the baby of the family, and clearly missing his parents far more than she was. She figured that was because as much as she had always been accepted and welcomed into the Carmichael family, she knew they weren't really _her_ parents.

She had never doubted that they loved her, but she knew that Geoff was Uncle Cadmus' favorite, and Nico was Aunt Jenny's. She, on the other hand, was their responsible, grown-up little girl: the less-favored fosterling and the middle child to boot. There was a reason she called Aunt Jenny _Aunt_ instead of _Mum._

Her _real_ mum had been an Auror, driven mad by the Death Eaters before Irene could even remember her. She lay in a bed at St. Mungo's for years, her mind gone, before she had finally died.

It was for her as much as for Aunt Jenny and Uncle Cadmus that Irene had secretly vowed that she would, someday, destroy the Death Eaters. She had also sworn vengeance, as soon as she was old enough to understand, on the man who had knocked up her mother, and then left her, pregnant and alone in the world. Tom Riddle, his name was, though according to Aunt Jenny, he seemed to have completely disappeared from Magical Britain about thirteen years before she was born.

Both tasks seemed equally impossible, given that the government couldn't seem to do a thing about the Death Eaters, and Aunt Jenny had thrown all the resources of House Carmichael at the latter problem, but Irene didn't care if it took her entire life – when she was grown up, she _would_ find a way to make them pay for their crimes against her and her family.

In the meanwhile, though, she was at the mercy of adults who didn't care what she wanted or how she felt. They just wanted to put her in a convenient box of 'sad child' and leave her there forever. Maybe they thought it was easier to deal with sad than angry. Irene didn't know. All she knew was that she was _so_ tired of mourning – everything would just be so much easier if everyone would just accept that this was the way things were, now, and move on.

If she had to sit through one more round of hugs and _you poor thing_ and whispers where the adults thought she couldn't hear about how she must be _in shock, the dear girl_ , she might scream.

Fortunately, after Grandmother Primrose finally departed, leaving Irene's un-shrunken belongings stacked neatly in the room she was to share with Petunia (at least until Uncle Fred had time to build a little partition for them and turn the little bedroom into two _tiny_ bedrooms – the Evans' house really was too small for six people), she quickly shook off her family's clinging embraces. Was it too much to ask to just… be alone, for a little while?

 **Lily – July, 1969**

It hadn't taken long at all for Lily to realize that Severus' (Sev's – Severus was just too dratted long) home life was… less than ideal. His father was a mean drunk, and his mother, well… she didn't know what was wrong with that witch, not defending her son from his father. They had become the best of friends practically overnight with their shared, secret magic, and spending nearly every waking moment together, it was impossible for him to hide the bruises, or his grumbling stomach when all the money had been spent on alcohol instead of bread. He still wouldn't admit it, but it wasn't much of a surprise to her when they were wandering the streets, late, after her birthday party, and he declared that he didn't want to go home.

"Won't your mum be worried?" she asked, biting her lip and twirling her hair too-innocently. She knew his mum wouldn't be worried, but that was the sort of thing you said when you were pretending you didn't know about something awful going on right under your nose, wasn't it?

"She doesn't care what I do when she's drinking," Severus said quietly. "She doesn't care what _he_ does to me."

Lily stumbled over her feet, utterly shocked that he had finally said something, even in passing. Normally they didn't talk about his parents like they didn't talk about her parents. She pulled him close under a streetlight and looked him in the eye. "Stay at my house tonight, Sev."

"I can't. Your parents wouldn't let me stay."

"Who says we're gonna tell them?"

"Lilyyyyy, you're making this hard!"

"It's my birthday, Sev! Come stay with me."

"I shouldn't," the boy said, but there was something like hope in his eyes.

"You already said _your_ parents wouldn't care. Come on, it will be fun!"

She grabbed him by the wrist and towed him back the way they had come, giving herself over to the joy of misbehaving and laughing wildly.

Severus had a small smile on his face.

Petunia was a problem, but not an insurmountable one. She gaped silently as Lily opened the window of their still-shared bedroom to let Sev crawl inside. Who would get the window was an ongoing debate, and part of the reason they still had yet to see any progress on the partition which was, in all honesty, probably never going to be built. It was looking far more likely that the twins' room would be separated, and Petunia would take one half and Violet would move in with Lily – or else Uncle Fred would put it off until Lily went to Hogwarts, and then Vi would move in with Petunia, and Lily would crash with Matt in the summers.

"Are you insane? What is _he_ doing here?" the older girl whispered incredulously.

"He's staying with me," Lily whispered back, fiercely.

"No, he's not! He can't! Lily!"

"If you tell on us, I'll tell Aunt Mary you and Sue Willis are sneaking off to smoke fags and kiss boys when you say you're at the library."

"That's not _true_ ," Petunia blustered.

"Oh yes it is!" the birthday girl grinned sharply. " _And_ I know about the way you've been getting your hands on those fags, too, and the makeup, _and_ the new blouse you said Suzie's older sister gave you."

The teenager blanched. "You _wouldn't_."

"Not if you don't say anything…"

" _Fine_ ," Petunia grumbled. "You little –"

"Favorite cousin of yours? Aww, Tuney, you're so _sweet_." She shot a smirk at Sev, who gave her a hesitant smile in return. "Here," she rifled through her drawers, looking for something that he could use as pajamas that wasn't too girly. "You can change in the bathroom. I'll keep watch and make sure the coast is clear."

" _Lily_!" Petunia whispered sharply. "How long is he staying?!"

Lily just shrugged. As long as she could manage it, probably. It wasn't like he really had anywhere else to go.

…

Her cousin said nothing when she saw the bruises and scars on Sev's arms and legs, but she also didn't complain about his presence in their room for the two and a half weeks it took for them to slip up and get caught sneaking Sev in and out of the shower.

 **Lily – August, 1971**

"Hurry up, Brat!" Petunia shouted from the living room.

"I'm coming!" There were just a few more things to shove into her trunk.

"Hey, Firestarter!"

"Geoff?!" Lily slammed the lid closed, and then, when it didn't click shut, jumped on it, smashing her clothes and books down before running out of the room. "Come help me with my trunk!" she demanded, arms wrapped tightly around his waist. He had gotten tall since the last time she had seen him.

"You're making that slightly impossible, Lily," Severus drawled, so she launched herself at him, instead, laughing.

"I'm _so excited_! Aren't you excited, Sev?"

"I'd be more excited if you weren't _holding us up_. Come _on_! We're going to be _late_."

At that, it was Geoff's turn to laugh. He had gone and brought back her trunk without her even noticing. "No, we won't, Snape. Don't worry so much."

Petunia was fawning over Geoff. She had just been marveling at his strength, carrying the trunk all by himself, and now she said, "How are you getting to King's Cross? Are you _driving_? Lily, you didn't tell me Geoff had a _car_."

Lily snorted. There was no way she thought he was eighteen. Sixteen and a heavy dose of flattery, _maybe_. "He doesn't – we're taking a bus. And he's not even fifteen yet."

Geoff glared at her – he had obviously been enjoying her cousin's attentions, though she couldn't fathom _why_. Petunia wilted slightly at the knowledge that the strapping Geoff was not the older man she had thought, but really younger than herself. After a few seconds, though, she recovered well enough to say, "I… wouldn't have guessed that," which cheered him up a bit.

He put on his best Carmichael manners to say: "I am honored that so lovely a young lady as yourself would consider me worthy of her interest."

Petunia blushed. _Blushed_. "Enough!" Lily shouted. "Stop flirting! Sev's right, we need to go."

"What about your aunt and uncle, and… aren't there little cousins, too?" Geoff asked.

Lily couldn't tell if he was delaying to tease her, or to have more time to make eyes at Pet, but either explanation was _unacceptable._ "Uncle Fred's at work, and Aunt Mary had to take the kids to the doctor. We said goodbye last night. Now _come on_."

Geoff shot Petunia a rueful grin. "I shall just have to write you, if you wish to continue this conversation at a later date."

Petunia rolled her eyes. "Yeah, alright – and you can explain why that school of yours lives in the bloody dark ages, while you're at it."

"Of course, milady," Geoff bowed in ascent, which made Petunia blush again. "I shall do my utmost."

Severus' shoulders were shaking with silent laughter. Lily glared at him. It wasn't _that_ funny.

But then he added with classic, dry Snape humor, "Think of it this way, Petunia: receiving letters from a mysterious boy at a school trapped in the dark ages is _very_ romantic," which _was_ that funny.

Especially when Petunia went completely red and ordered them out of the house. "Go! Get out, you bleedin' tosspot. I don't want to see neither one of you brats again until Christmas!"

Severus gave her a mocking salute before offering Lily his arm. "Shall we?"

"Let's!" she declared, then glared at Geoff, " _Finally_!" and waved at her cousin. "Bye, Tuney. Enjoy having Vi for a roommate. I would write, but I guess Geoff will do that for me."

He laughed, offering his own farewell, and followed the first-years out to the kerb, where Severus' battered trunk and Geoff's much nicer one were already waiting. "What the hell did you put in here, Firestarter? Bricks?" he groaned, setting Lily's down beside them.

" _Books_ ," she corrected him. She had bought all of her books second-hand to make her meagre savings go further, and she and Sev had spent _hours_ choosing the most interesting introductory texts and history books they could find while his mum lurked in a corner of the Leaky Cauldron with a bottle of firewhisky.

The older boy rolled his eyes, and Severus said, "You'd think a Ravenclaw would be more understanding…"

Geoff laughed, raising a hand to summon the Knight Bus. "First rule of Ravenclaw: always question everything. There's more to knowledge and wisdom than just _reading_."

The bus appeared with a _bang_ , and the three students trooped on-board, Geoff and the conductor handling the trunks.

"Geoff's one of the _artistic_ Ravenclaws," Lily informed Sev. "He writes music. Piano, mostly. He's very good."

"I thought you hadn't seen him since the Yule before last. He said that's why his guardians agreed to let him pick you up."

"I haven't, but I doubt he's gotten _worse_ since then."

"Alright, Irene? Snape?" Geoff asked, plonking himself down beside them as the bus set off with another bang. They nodded, and the Ravenclaw gave them a positively cunning look. "So tell me more about Miss Petunia Evans – your letters have been entirely lacking on that front, Miss Firestarter…"

…

Geoff abandoned the two firsties for his own friends once he had them safely ensconced in a compartment. It was only a matter of minutes before they were joined by a messy-haired boy who called himself Jamie Potter and introduced himself like a pureblood.

As they had agreed months before, after a very serious discussion with Grandmother Primrose, Lily introduced herself only as Evans, rather than Evans-Carmichael. That was the way her Hogwarts letter had arrived, and the way she would be addressed in school. The people who killed her mother were still at large, and, apparently, growing only more powerful. The more distance she could put between the name Harrison and herself, the better, and there were people who knew that Matilde Harrison had been close to the Carmichaels. It would be best if Lily was known as a muggleborn, or a muggle-raised half-blood, with an absentee wizard father. That, Lily had laughed harshly, was almost the truth, anyway.

So, if push came to shove, she was ready to claim her father as magical, despite her unwavering hatred for him (seeing as he was good for absolutely nothing else), but she had to pretend that her mother was no one, and Severus had to do the same. According to the story they were telling, Severus had taught her everything she knew about the magical world. He introduced himself with, Lily was amused to see, an equal degree of snootiness that appeared to go right over James Potter's head.

"Pleased to meet you!" James said, brushing a kiss over the back of Lily's hand. "I have to go rescue my cousin. I'll be back!"

He returned a few minutes later towing a rather uncomfortable-looking boy with wavy black hair and silvery eyes, and herding several other people along as well. They were chattering loudly, clearly already friends. They occupied the carriage at once, a quiet boy with light brown hair sitting next to Lily as James introduced the others.

"Severus, Lily, hope you don't mind the crowd. This is my cousin Sirius, and this is Tory Loupeau, and Alice Diggory, and Marley McKinnon and what did you say your name was, again? Lupin…"

"Remus Lupin," the boy said softly.

Lily switched seats with him so that she could get to know Marley and Alice better. James began trying to tease an obviously withdrawn Sirius into conversation, though Sirius wasn't having it. Severus sat quietly in the corner, watching the action, as he was wont to do. Lily could feel his eyes on her, and flashed him a grin.

"What House do you think you'll go to?" Tory asked Remus as the train left the station.

"Oh, I dunno," he said shyly. "Maybe Ravenclaw. I like reading."

"Me too!" Lily exclaimed. "Maybe we'll be there together." She was _hoping_ for Ravenclaw, really, because she thought she might be best-suited to Slytherin, and she didn't fancy being a muggleborn, or even a muggle-raised half-blood in that House, if half of Geoff's stories were true.

"Books are boring!" James declared. "Gryffindor's the best! The house of the brave and adventurous! What about you, Alice, Marley?"

Alice looked thoughtful for a moment before she declared, "Marley's going to be a Gryffindor. No other house would have her. And I will be a Hufflepuff, because friends are more important than adventures."

"Hey!" said Marley, but then grinned, "Yeah, Gryffindor. If friends are so important, Allie, you should come into Gryffindor too!" Alice grinned and shook her head.

"What about you, Severus?" James asked.

"Slytherin," Severus said simply.

James made a face. "Why would you want to be a slimy snake? I'd rather be a Hufflepuff than a Slytherin. Um, sorry, mate," he said to Sirius, who was elbowing him in the side.

"I wasn't aware we were given a choice," Severus said.

"Well we're not, but if you're not a sneaky, lying git, why would you go to Slytherin?"

"Tradition," Sirius suggested morosely.

"They can't make you go if you don't belong there, Siri."

"All the Blacks have been in Slytherin, Jamie! Your mum was in Slytherin."

James collapsed dramatically to the floor, miming as though Sirius had stabbed him through the heart. "You wound me, cousin!" he sat up. "Keep talking like that and you will be a Snake, and then where will I be? Alone in my tower, befit and friendless…"

" _Bereft_ ," Lily heard Tory correct him quietly. She hid a grin.

"Besides," James continued, "I always get what I want, and I want my favorite cousin with me in Gryffindor!"

Severus and Lupin rolled their eyes, but the girls giggled, insults about Slytherin and Hufflepuff apparently forgotten. Lily joined them after half a second, already having decided that, at least until she figured out what houses they were all in, Alice and Marley would be her new models for appropriate behavior at Hogwarts.

…

Eight hours and one boat-ride later, the eight first-years from Lily's compartment joined at least forty or fifty others, forming a straggling line before the Professors' table. The Great Hall was just as fantastic as Lily had heard, with its enchanted ceiling and the floating candles. What made it really impressive, though, was the hundreds of students at their four long tables.

Lily tried to pay attention to all of them, but the only ones that really caught in her memory before her own Sorting were Sirius Black, who looked just as terrified after he was sorted into Gryffindor as before, and Alice Diggory, who did, indeed, go to Hufflepuff, as she had predicted.

"Evans, Lily!"

She tried not to skip too eagerly to the Hat, but she wasn't sure she managed it. The old leather and cloth dropped down over her eyes, shutting out the world, and a quiet voice whispered, as though inside her mind, "Evans, Lily, eh? Yes, inside your mind indeed. What have we here? Let's see, let's see…"

 _I'd like to go to Ravenclaw, if it's all the same to you,_ she thought firmly.

"Ah," the Hat said, sounding faintly amused, "but it's _not_ all the same. I see you think you belong in Slytherin, with your friend, but not _because_ of him. I do see potential for cunning and ruthlessness… yes, you would do well there."

 _Oh, please don't,_ she begged silently. _I'm pretending to be muggleborn! That would be a nightmare! Ravenclaw would be much better. I'm smart, I like books – I could be a Ravenclaw!_

"Ah, intelligent, yes, but you don't love learning for its own sake – you want to _do_ something with your knowledge. Art for Art's Sake is not for you, my dear. I do see courage here, and a certain secret vow…?"

Lily felt herself flush. It was true that she had decided, long ago, that she would one day avenge her mother's death – her torture. She didn't know how, but she would find a way. She already had a starting point, as daunting as it was: the Knights of Walpurgis – that shadowy and dangerous organization, whispered about in hushed voices only when adults thought there were no children about. If they were still around by the time she graduated, she knew she would be an Auror, like her mother, hunting them down.

"That, along with your courage and daring, would see you well in Gryffindor," the Hat pointed out.

 _No! I can't be a Gryffindor! It's got to be Ravenclaw! Sev's bound to be a Slytherin, you see, and –_

"Let me ask you this: would you rather be more like your mother, or more like your father?"

 _Mother, of course_ , she thought, before the Hat even finished speaking.

"I applaud your answer. Not that I'm judging, you understand, but the world truly does _not_ need another Tom Riddle, and it would be all too easy for you to follow his path in Ravenclaw, especially with this vendetta on your shoulders. So then, all preferences aside, I believe it must be _GRYFFINDOR_ for you."

 _But – Sev!_

"Take heart, my dear," the Hat said kindly, as it was plucked off her head. "I trust you will find the courage to overcome the barriers of different Houses."

 _Thrice-damned, poxy bit of old cloth_ , she thought mutinously as she made her way to her fellow new Gryffindors, sending an apologetic look back at Severus as she went.

"'sa matter?" Sirius Black muttered as she took her seat between him and a blonde firstie. "Lose a fight with the Hat?"

She glared fiercely at him. "Just because you won yours doesn't mean you get to be smug."

He smirked, apparently recovering from his own Sorting. "On the contrary – I think that's the _best_ reason to be smug."

"Oh, shut up." She kicked him under the table, and then, while he was still shocked by her unladylike behavior, turned to the girl. "Lily Evans. I didn't catch your name."

"Ellie Adams," she whispered back. A stern looking woman in green robes glared at them, and they subsided in time to clap as 'Gudgeon, David,' joined their table.

Remus Lupin, Marlene McKinnon, and James Potter all ended up at Gryffindor as well. Remus looked almost as surprised as Lily was, but much less upset.

It took forever to reach Severus' name, and he sat under the hat for what seemed like ages, probably arguing, as she had done, to be put in Ravenclaw. They hadn't predicted a world in which she would be a Gryffindor, but everyone knew that Snakes and Lions didn't get along. It would be easier to stay friends if they weren't in directly opposite houses. But he must have lost his argument with the Hat as well, because after several minutes the Hat yelled, "SLYTHERIN!"

Lily clapped as hard as she could for him, wanting him to know that she was still his friend, but he looked like a doomed man, heading toward the green and silver table.


	15. Rise of the Dark Lady Black Summary

**Rise of the Dark Lady Black**

The one where Fem!Tom is adopted by Dorea Black's parents (yes, MP!Mary's great-grandparents).

So there are two chapters written of this story so far: the 'prologue' which takes place in roughly 1947, when Tam is twenty-one, and the first chapter, which takes place in 1929, when Tam is three.

Tam is fostered into the House of Black before she is old enough to truly cultivate the conscious need for power and control over her own life that motivate Tom in MP. Instead, she is exposed to more sophisticated ideas of power and learns to play the games of spies and Empires at the knee of her adoptive father, Draco Cadmus. If there is any family in Magical Britain that knows how to raise a sadistic, sociopathic child as a mostly-functional member of Society, it is the House of Black. The Lestrange contribution, well… let's just say there's a reason for their family name. Bioalchemy is a bit of a specialty of theirs, and it tends to give one a rather warped perspective on life, death, and so-called human limitations.

Tam, like Tom, is a natural Legilimens, rather absurdly powerful, and scarily intelligent. Unlike Tom, however, she has the advantages of having been trained from a young age to hide the crazy and being homeschooled by the Blacks. She meets Dumbledore at the age of thirteen by applying to be his apprentice, well after her façade of social acceptability is perfected, and becomes one of his closest and most trusted confidants. She earns her Mastery in Alchemy under Dumbledore before following her father into the Office of Foreign and Domestic Affairs as a Black Cloak (ie, an agent of the Ministry who maintains the Statute of Secrecy throughout the British Empire, often outside the technical purview of Magical Britain or any ICW state, by any means necessary).

(In the Mary Potter continuity, the Black Cloaks were almost entirely eliminated by Grindelwald and his supporters, picked off between 1939 and 1942, and the survivors integrated into the Auror Office after the end of Grindelwald's War. In this continuity, thirteen-year-old Tam mentions to her foster father that if _she_ were trying to break the Statute of Secrecy by brute force, the first thing she would do would be to take out the Black Cloaks, as they are the foremost concealment agency in Europe, leading Draco to look into the pattern of disappearances which were initially dismissed as a series of unfortunate but unsuspicious accidents/normal attrition in the ranks.)

When Dumbledore finally goes to face Grindelwald in 1945, he invites Tam to come with him and back him up. She betrays him, leading to his death, and defects from the Black Cloaks, taking with her a core of loyal supporters who form the basis of an anti-Statutarian movement which opposes both Grindelwald (who has clearly lost sight of his original goals) and the status quo (which is unsustainable). The end-game is a controlled re-introduction of magic to muggle consciousness and perhaps eventually a slow dissolution of the Statute, once muggles have accepted the idea of magic again.


	16. RDLB1: Prologue

December, 1946

"Hello, Father."

Draco Cadmus, scion of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black and faithful Agent of the Office of Foreign and Domestic Affairs, froze at the light, slightly sardonic voice. It came from all around him, from the shadows at the corners of the office, where the light of the lamps did not reach.

"Packing again, I see. Mother will not be pleased, you know. And poor Dorea will be devastated. What are the chances, after all, that you will return in time for her wedding?" ' _Or at all'_ hung unspoken in the air.

A tall, androgynous young woman, dressed in shades of black and grey, stepped out of the darkness. Her black hair was cropped short, framing a too-thin, too-angular, unnaturally pale face, and light eyes that burned with intensity. She held a wand in one hand, its wood as white as her skin, and a knife in the other, its blade the matte black of dragon bone. He could not for the life of him predict her next move from her expression or her carriage, and legilimency was entirely out of the question. If she had not betrayed him to the core, along with everything he stood for, he would be proud. As it was, well… it was difficult to raise a child who grew to be more powerful than oneself, and especially one so ruthlessly driven as his adopted daughter.

"Have you come to kill me, Tam?" he asked, his voice wavering only slightly from his usual confident tone.

She smiled: a small, controlled expression, not her truly delighted, feral grin. "Quite the opposite, actually. I come with a warning: stay clear of Palestine. The attack on Jaffa must be allowed to go forward. My people will handle it."

He could not help but scoff. "Your people. You _betrayed us_. With Albus Dumbledore out of the picture, it's only a matter of time until –"

"Until _someone else_ takes out Grindelwald. You didn't know Dumbledore like I did. Trust me, you wouldn't have liked a world where he was the savior of Europe."

"But he would have upheld the Statute! That is more important than any single nation – even ours!"

"The Statute is unsustainable! I may not agree with Gellert's methods, but I do agree with _that_."

"And what would you have us do? Just… reveal ourselves and the reality of magic? When you have _seen_ the devastation the muggles are capable of inflicting? Move our society to the Crossroads, become refugees, fighting tooth and nail for a meagre, marginalized existence? The Statute is our only hope of retaining our homes – our way of life!"

The young woman glared at him, her eyes flashing red as her magic flared, betraying her anger and frustration, even if her tone did not. "I am not having this argument with you again, Father. We will find a way. If I don't manage it, someone else _will_. But that person will not be Albus Dumbledore, who so feared his own potential that he refrained from taking up against his one-time love until he had destroyed half of Europe – I can't even _imagine_ what he would have done to our people had he won – you know how they like their heroes. And it will not be Gellert Grindelwald, who does the work of the Destructive Power with such abandon that it is all but certain he has lost sight of his initial goal. For that matter, it will not be any of the current world leaders, so caught up in fighting amongst themselves that they do not see the looming threat."

"The so-called 'End of Magic'?" Draco sneered.

"Magic works as it does because we believe it ought to work as it does," Tam snapped back. " _You_ taught me that, if you recall! Well, what do you suppose happens when the world believes that there is no such thing as magic – that it is beyond the reach of we mortals? When five _billion_ muggles believe that magic is the realm of fae-stories and primitive superstition? Hmm? You need only to speak with any of the Powers to see how it is fading. How many wizards are there, in the Western world? Half a million, _maybe_? And we spend all our time and energy killing each other, taking our magic for granted."

"There will _always_ be magic, Tamsyn. It cannot be destroyed any more than the world itself can be destroyed!"

The girl – for despite the approach of her twenty-first birthday and the fact that she had done an adult's work for nearly six years, now, her idealism still marked her as a child in her father's eyes – shook her head slowly. When she spoke, it was with an exhaustion which had not been present only a few seconds before. "And as usual, you're missing the point, Father. _Magic_ may always exist, but what does that matter, if it shifts according to its own laws to lie beyond our reach? But we stray from the purpose of my little visit. You've been assigned to Palestine. If you value your life, you will not accept the mission, and you will tell no one. My people _will_ ensure that the attack on Jaffa goes according to _our_ plan, and I would hate to have to kill you."

He could not resist a jab at the formidable young witch, whom he was certain would not hesitate, if she did believe his death necessary. He had raised her, after all, and the Blacks were nothing if not ruthless. "Sentiment, Tam?"

She rolled her eyes, and he took the split second lapse in her focus to go for his wand. She was faster, disarming him with casual brutality, his shoulder torn from its socket and his wand from his hand, before carrying on the conversation as though he had not moved. "Hardly. The operation will be complex enough without your interference. So don't interfere."

He hesitated, hard-pressed to conceal the pain in his voice as he answered. "I will comply on one condition, Tam."

"What's that?" She raised an eyebrow at him – her go-to expression for nearly every situation about which she truly felt nothing.

"Promise me… promise me that this is not in vain. Tell me you have a plan, that you have not destroyed the Office and betrayed our country and our mission and _me_ for nothing."

"Do you really think so little of me, Father? Do you have so little faith in your own teaching? Of _course_ there is a plan – and one which does not leave us with the scattered servants of a martyred Dark Lord out for revenge, or a Light tyrant at the helm of the government, maintaining a broken system afterward. Grindelwald was necessary to take out Dumbledore, but his time is coming, and you may rest assured that _my_ plan, unlike Dumbledore's, does not end with his death."

And in that moment, Draco saw it: "You're planning to supplant him, take his place."

She did smile, then, truly. "I am planning on changing the world. Did you ever think I would do anything less?"

He shivered as she faded back into the shadows.

It truly was not an easy thing, to be Tam Riddle's father.


	17. RDLB2: The Beginning

The year was 1929, the date November first. It had been three days since the world supposedly ended, and life went on. The adults, preoccupied with very important, grown-up problems of money and resources, comprehensively failed to notice as a rather intelligent, too-quiet, nearly-four-year-old child peered around the corner, into the kitchen of a children's home called Wool's.

All of the adults – Matron Cole, the man Tom Vickers, and the half-dozen variously flighty Girls who cared for the children were seated around the table, discussing the new state of affairs in low, anxious tones. The little girl could feel their worry from the doorway. It made her feel all bubbly inside, like anything was possible – they were all just _waiting_ to see what happened next, really. That was all to the good: none of them were paying any attention to her or the other children – not for the last two days, and not today, either.

She slipped past the open doorway like a shadow, none of the adults the wiser, and let herself out onto the front stoop, reveling in her momentary freedom. Surely one of the Girls would be sent to find her soon enough, but in the meanwhile, she was able to go wherever she liked, do and see whatever she wanted.

She skipped down the walk and out the gate, turning toward the up-scale area of town that lay only a few blocks away. Miss Cara often took the orphans there when it was her turn to supervise their walks, and spent the whole time sighing over pretty clothing and rich men she would never have for herself, much to the little girl's amusement.

Today, unlike the last time they had come this way, there were no happy, mooning, well-dressed couples wandering about, taking their own children or pet dogs out for walks. There were an unusual number of lost-looking, single, rich men, kitted out for the office, wandering around as though they had forgotten where they ought to be, giving off waves of cold: loss, she thought. And so much anger (gathering in the air like lightning before a storm) and bubbling anxious worry that she was surprised no one else seemed to have noticed. Under it all there was a dragging-down feeling of weakness, like new children at the orphanage. But she was pretty sure _all_ of their families couldn't have died or abandoned them. It must be the end of the world, she thought.

There were more ladies than usual staring out of windows at well-tended gardens, and no children about at all. And strangest of all, at least to the little girl's mind, there were two – no, three – very tall, cloaked and hooded… people?

She thought of them as people for lack of a better word, but they didn't seem quite real.

For one thing, they moved strangely, gliding after the men, who didn't seem to see them, and for another, she could sense nothing from them. People – real people – were always feeling something. Sometimes she found it irritating (especially mooning-about love, like too-hot, too-still summer air, all sticky and hard to breathe). Sometimes it was too much, the weight of all their wanting (need like hunger that never went away) or loneliness (cold loss and wanting all at once) or hate (hot, clawing, like a rabid dog) or confusion (making everything fuzzy like static on the radio), and she couldn't really pay attention to any of it, so she just let it fade into the background, like a voice that wasn't talking to her. But it was always _there._ The tall… not-people were like… holes in her awareness. Just _nothing._ She wouldn't have believed they were there at all, except she reached out and brushed the edge of a cloak as one fluttered past, taking no more notice of her than the men did of them.

The men they approached grew _colder_ and _heavier_ and _weaker_ as the cloaked… not-people drew near, loss and sadness and helplessness overcoming their anger and worry.

Even as she watched, one of _them_ reached down and wrapped a hand around the back of the head of a particularly weak-and-heavy man. It was all scabby and half-rotted, like the leper-beggars who lived on the streets down the _other_ way from the orphanage. (She used to go exploring that way more, since the orphans were never taken there on walks, but she stopped after a slimy, hungry-feeling man tried to grab her the one time, muttering about little girls and money.)

The leper-handed _thing_ bent down low, its hooded face momentarily covering the man's and… and… all the feelings spiraling off the man _disappeared_ , like a scent or a sound dissipating on the cool, damp air, or water running down a drain… into the… _thing_ , and out of the world. The tall… _thing_ slid back from the man, its hand hidden again in its cloak, and the man slumped to the ground in the middle of the road, his eyes staring, unblinking, at the pavement.

For a moment, the girl thought he was dead. She ran closer to see, only to find his chest still moving, slowly, as he breathed.

"What did you _do_ to him?" she asked the thing, marveling at the strangeness of this man who now seemed to feel nothing at all, like the tall creature itself.

It quirked its head to the side, silently. She could not see its face beneath its hood. Did it even _have_ a face?

"What _are_ you?" she asked, nearly bursting with curiosity. "How did you make him go all… quiet?"

It reached for its hood, infinitely slowly.

…

Behind the heavily-warded windows of a nearby town-home, another little girl shrieked. "Mummy! Mummy! The 'mentors are gonna Kiss a girl!"

Her father, reading his paper and sipping his tea, enjoying the last morning of normalcy before what he suspected would be a rather lengthy mission, looked up, startled. "What's that, poppet?"

"The ' _mentors_ , Daddy! They're gonna Kiss a little girl! Daddy, come _look_!"

That finally broke Draco Black out of his morning reverie enough for the emergency to register. "Powers above!" he exclaimed, glancing out the window. "Lori! Lorelei, call the Aurors!" He seized his wand from its place beside his teacup and rushed to the door, shouting a spell before he had even cleared the threshold. It was all too easy to imagine his own dark-haired little girl in this stranger's place, and the charm worked accordingly to protect the one person he held dearest in all the world. A silver stallion burst from a point of light, flying across the short distance that separated the child and the monsters – there were three of the wretched demons converging upon her – from the house.

It interposed itself between them, standing over the child and pawing the ground, rearing and kicking to drive the foul creatures back.

"What are _you_?" the girl was asking the Patronus by the time he reached her, shoving aside curious muggles – they might not be able to see the Dementors, but they certainly could see the effects of the defensive charm. She poked one of its legs tentatively, then frowned fiercely, pulling back as though burned.

"It's a Patronus Charm," Draco said quietly, his voice nearly drowned out by the cracks of apparition as the Aurors and Obliviators arrived on the scene, _finally_ – two minutes after the nick of time, as always.

"A what?" The little girl, turned to him. "And what are _they_?" she asked, pointing at the dementor that a pair of Aurors had managed to wrangle into custody. The other two, he suspected, must have fled. " _Tell me what's going on_!" she demanded, with all the angry petulance of any confused four-year-old, and to his extraordinary surprise, a brush of compulsion, untrained, but, in his professional opinion, remarkably well-formed. He ignored it, instead considering the girl before him.

She was, quite clearly, a witch – muggles could not see dementors at all, let alone form that sort of wandless compulsion. She was glaring fiercely at him with wide, startlingly blue eyes, almost lavender in the light. With her blue-black hair and death-pale skin, she could easily have been mistaken for one of his cousins at a glance, though her face was much too thin, and she was wearing what was clearly a muggle shift of some sort, which none of his cousins would allow any of their children to be caught dead in.

"Who are you?" he asked. "Where are your parents?"

"I asked you _first_!" she stomped a tiny foot. " _Tell me!"_

" _Stop that_ , you little brat!" he snapped, brushing off the second compulsion as well. He wondered where her parents were, and how they justified letting her run so wild as to attempt to compel perfect strangers on the street. She couldn't possibly be _muggleborn_ , could she?

"Sir?" one of the aurors said, approaching hesitantly. "My name is, uh, Junior Auror Caldwell, and, um… Sorry to interrupt, but I've been asked to take your statement? And your, um… daughter's?"

Of course, they sent the team's resident Blibbering Humdinger to ask the routine questions. Just what he wanted to deal with at the moment. His opinion of the Auror Corp (never high to begin with) was falling with every passing second. "Gods and Powers, man, grow a pair! You _are_ Auror Caldwell, and you have a few questions to ask us before you can get out of our hair! Make it quick! Snappy! Don't _ask_ me, tell me! And for the love of Magic, do _not_ introduce yourself as a _Junior_ Auror, got it?!"

"Um… yes, sir? I mean, yes, sir!" The lad very nearly _saluted._

The older wizard (though he was only twenty-eight, himself), rolled his eyes. "Black, Draco Cadmus, Foreign and Domestic Affairs, Operations Agent." He pulled his Ministry badge from his pocket, and the baby Auror blanched. Understandable, really, given that 'Foreign and Domestic Affairs' agents were not-so-secretly the Ministry's Problem Solvers throughout the Empire. Their assignments could range from diplomacy to assassination to spycraft: the public referred to them as 'Black Cloaks' and afforded them a semi-legendary status from London to Bombay to Sydney and Cape Town.

Draco ignored Caldwell's reaction. He continued giving his statement without even a pause: "I am a resident of number twenty-seven Ptarmigan Lane, that's _that_ one, right over there," he pointed at his house. "This young lady is _not_ my daughter. _My_ daughter spotted the Dementors lowering their hoods from the front window and shouted the alarm. My wife called you useless buggers while I ran to the girl's defense. I cast the Patronus from behind my wards. Muggle observation was unavoidable, but as you have a dementor in custody over there and a Kissed muggle, it should be fairly open-and-shut."

"Um… it may be," Caldwell said, then muttered under his breath, "I hope." He gulped nervously before adding, "And, uh… the girl?"

"Tell the lad what happened, missy," Draco ordered the child, rather perfunctorily. She looked almost as though she wanted to object, but she took a second look at the fear with which the Auror regarded him, and reconsidered (despite, he noted, no real sign of respect or fear from the girl herself).

"The tall things… the… De-mentors, did you call them?" she rolled the word around on her tongue a bit. "Dement-ors. Hm. They were following the heavy men, and one of them made one of the heavy men go all _quiet_ , and he fell over, and I wanted to see what it did, and then I asked what it was, and it was just about to tell me when the angel-horse chased it away," she pouted slightly.

The Black Cloak scowled at the young wizard, who was staring open-mouthed at the girl. Draco knew why, of course: it was, perhaps, one witch or wizard in a hundred who could face down a dementor without batting an eye, and even then, _curiosity_ was not the prevailing emotional response. Before the young Auror could become too suspicious of the child, he snapped, "Why aren't you writing this down, boy?!"

"Erm, yes, um…" Caldwell fumbled for a quill and a small scroll for notes. The girl hid a giggle behind her hand as she watched him scribble furiously for several minutes. Draco simply sighed.

"Look, Caldwell, I have an assignment meeting in…" He checked his pocketwatch for effect. "…just over two hours, and to be perfectly frank, I don't know where I'll be in three. I really haven't the time to just stand around while you twiddle your thumbs, so I'll make this easy for you: Driving off Dementors in defense of a child is pretty gods-cursed straightforward, but in the event that your Senior takes exception to writing all this up as a Class E Secrecy violation, he can take it up with my department head – here's his card – or Lord Black as the Head of the House. He'll take care of any fines and so on. Crystal?"

"Um… yes? I… think so? But, um… sorry, who is the girl, again?"

Drake raised an expectant eyebrow at the child, who sighed. "I'm Tam, Tamsyn Riddle. I live at the orphanage down there," she pointed up the street. "Wool's. The Matron's Mrs. Cole. She's prob'ly noticed I'm gone by now."

"You… live in an orphanage? A… muggle orphanage?" the young Auror asked.

"What's a muggle?"

"So, um… that's a 'yes,'" the boy muttered. "We'll have to obliviate her," he said somewhat more clearly, to Draco – as though he had any responsibility for or authority over the child whatsoever.

That said, obliviating her was entirely out of the question. Not only would the child likely resist any attempt to obliviate her – and in all probability successfully, given the quality of Ministry Obliviators and the facility with mind magic the girl had already demonstrated – but sending a magical child to live in a muggle orphanage was akin to sacrilege in Draco's mind. One had a duty to protect magical blood, regardless of whether the child was a muggleborn or, as might well be the case, a by-blow of his own House. If the child wasn't even living with her parents, there was no reason at all to force her to grow up outside of magic.

Meanwhile, the girl, Tamsyn, was frowning again. "What's _obiviate_?"

"Never-you-mind, Miss Riddle – it doesn't hurt a bit. I'll just get my friend over here, and she'll help you forget all about this nasty business – Suzie! Ms. Rhodes!"

"Don't be absurd," Draco interrupted. "You're not sending a magical child back to a muggle orphanage."

"But – it's _protocol_ ," the auror objected as a blue-robed obliviator with Auror-red trim approached.

"I don't want to go back!" the girl added her own opinion to the fray.

"There, you see?" the Black Cloak smirked triumphantly. "Hang the protocol! Look, I'll take custody of her, go through all the proper channels as necessary," (well, he would have _someone_ go through the proper channels – he wasn't lying about his eleven o'clock assignment meeting) "but –"

"Oi, Caldwell, I've still got six muggles to do for. What do you need?"

"I, um… that is… it's the girl. She's uh… muggleborn. Got to clear her and send her home…"

"I don't want to go back!" Tamsyn repeated, as Draco shuffled her behind him.

"I'm telling you, Caldwell, you are _not_ touching this little girl's memories!"

Rhodes scowled. "Caldwell, when you're done wasting my time, let me know." She turned on her heel, ignoring his demands for her to wait.

"Listen, _Junior_ Auror," Draco spat. "Even if you _do_ send her back, I'll have someone down to that dump by lunch to adopt her into the House of Black, so what say we skip the intermediate rigmarole, and simply allow me to take her across to mine right now? My wife and our solicitor will deal with the details, I can get off to work, you can write up your report, and we'll all get on with our days. Acceptable?"

Unfortunately it seemed the Blibberer had grown a pair after all, however, and at the most inconvenient time, as his response was a quavering denial. "I, um… we can't – I can't let you do that, Agent Black. You're well, um, that is… If you want to adopt her after, that's fine – nothing I can do to stop you, but I _have_ to have her _obliviated_! It's the _law_!"

"Oh, my dear Junior Auror," Draco grinned broadly. "You really _must_ be new," (He cut an index finger with a simple, wandless, wordless charm.) "if you haven't heard yet:" (He traced a rune in blood on the smooth skin of the girl's forehead.) "there are ways to get around _any_ law," (She blinked suspiciously at him, but did not object. Caldwell did: "Hey, what are you doing? _Stop_ that!") "and indeed some people to whom _the law_ simply _does not apply_."

Blacks and Black Cloaks were two of the latter category, in fact.

Drake ignored the Junior Auror's objections, muttering several long, Latinate phrases under his breath. There was a flash of light and the blood vanished. The girl shivered.

"That felt _strange_. What did you _do_?" she asked.

The elder wizard gave the younger the smuggest smirk he could muster as he answered her question, laying a possessive hand atop her dark head: "I've declared you a ward of House Black, before Magic Itself. Now unless the good Junior Auror wishes to take up the issue of why he saw fit to order the obliviation of a member of a Noble and Most Ancient House, he will _allow us to get on with our days_! Isn't that right, Mr. Caldwell?"

Caldwell nodded without thinking, in accordance with Draco's compulsion. The girl laughed, doubtless aware of what he had done. He silenced her with a look.

" _Very well,_ then. Miss Riddle, if you would, please go tell Mrs. Black what has occurred whilst I finish dealing with Mr. Caldwell. She will be happy to answer all of your questions, I'm sure."

"Number twenty-seven?" she asked, running off before he could answer. He found himself rather pleased that she had remembered. The intelligence and talent of the child would go far to ameliorate Arcturus' irritation at his acquisition of an unauthorized fosterling.

He turned back to the Junior Auror with a deceptively pleasant expression. "My dear Mr. Caldwell," he drawled, doing his utmost to channel the more political members of his family, "I think you will find that _the law_ is now on _my_ side in this instance."

Caldwell howled for his Senior. Drake sighed. He could only hope the more senior Auror would have a better understanding of _the way things worked._

…

"Mummy! Mummy! The girl's coming over here, now!"

"What's that, Dory?" Lorelei called from her husband's study, where she was busy packing the papers and books that he would not trust to the elves.

"The _girl_ ," Dorea shouted. "The one who was gonna be _Kissed_! She's at the door! Beastie! Open the door!"

" _Dorea_!" she chided her daughter, even as the elf popped to the front hall and disengaged the wards. "What have I told you about opening the door to strangers?"

"I _know_ , Mother, but she's just a girl! Hello!" the excitable child waved at the stranger.

The girl on the stoop, who looked vaguely offended to be called 'just a girl,' waved back, rather more guardedly. "'Lo," she said quietly before looking up at Lorelei. "Are you Missus Black?"

"I am," she answered, with a cool, society smile. "Lorelei Amelia Black, nee Lestrange. And you are…?"

The girl peered up at her with the best emotionless mask Lorelei had ever seen on a four-year-old – which was saying quite a lot, given the company her family kept. The only flaw was a shining light of curious interest around the corners of the child's eyes. "Tam Riddle. Mr. Black said I should tell you what happened, and you would answer all my questions."

Lorelei sighed, wondering why on earth her husband had seen fit to send a muggle child to speak with her, and what he was doing with the bloody aurors. At this rate, he was going to be late for his assignment meeting. He broke off gesticulating at two of the red-robed investigators to wave at her. She nodded, and invited the girl into the house with a small shrug. "I suppose you had better come in and have a seat, then. Dorea, take Miss Riddle to the front parlor, please. I will be in momentarily."

She could hear her daughter chattering animatedly and ordering the elf to fetch breakfast for their guest as she hastily tucked away the last of the maps and letters of credit into Drake's travelling wallet, alongside magical and muggle identification papers for six different identities (none of which were his own). She hoped that he wouldn't be gone too long this time – he had been on assignment the entire year Dory was three – but she rather doubted that her hope would be fulfilled.

She did keep an eye on the international news, after all, and she suspected that with the muggles of the civilized world in an uproar about their banking collapse, her husband would have his work cut out for him maintaining the tenuous peace between Magical Britain and the magical government of whatever far-flung corner of the Empire to which he was sent. Some of them were far more integrated with their muggle populations than Britain, and their muggles would doubtless be thinking that a confused and financially weakened Crown was a Crown ill-prepared to put down a rebellion. About half of the Indian states came to mind. It would be Draco's job to ensure that if, for example, the Indian provinces rebelled, they would do so without magic. Failing that, he would be tasked with concealing the existence of magic from the muggles of the United Kingdom by any means necessary. He would probably be gone for _months_. She sighed, setting the enchanted leather folder aside and heading toward the parlor.

"How old are you?" Dorea babbled, still excited, even after having had several minutes alone with their guest. Lorelei considered that perhaps she ought to find more occasions for the girl to socialize, if this was her reaction to company. "I'm four! I'll be five in two months and five days, not counting today. My birthday's January sixth! When's yours?"

"New Year's Eve," the other girl said, in a much lower tone and volume. "I'm almost four."

Lorelei raised a silent brow as she swept into the room. She would have guessed that the girl – Tamsyn? Tamara? – was older than that. She certainly seemed older than Dorea, from her behavior.

"Where do you live? I don't know of any Riddles. Are you from Hogsmeade? Where are your parents? Why were you alone out there with the 'mentors? Were you scared? I'd be scared, if it was me."

"Dorea, contain yourself," Lorelei said warningly when her daughter paused for breath.

The girl flushed slightly. "Sorry, Mother," she nearly whispered, even as their young visitor put on a confused expression.

"Of course I wasn't scared. Why would I be?"

Dorea's eyes grew very round. " _Because_ – the 'mentors nearly _Kissed_ you."

"So? Kisses are gross, but not _scary_."

This was too much for the young Black, who stuttered incoherently. Lorelei intervened, somewhat awkwardly, as she had never explained the existence of magic to a muggle before. "Tam, darling, this may be hard for you to believe, but magic is very real."

Tam blinked at her. "Okay?"

Perhaps, she thought, this was easier because the girl was so young, and therefore credulous. She smiled more genuinely, warming to her topic. "I am a witch. My husband, Draco, is a wizard. The spell he cast over you outside was intended to chase away a _Dementor_ , which is a type of demonic creature that feeds on emotion. They are invisible to muggles – non-magical people, that is – but they are very dangerous. If they are not restrained, they will do more than just feed on emotions. They can suck a person's soul out through their mouth, leaving an unthinking, unfeeling husk behind. That's called a Dementor's Kiss."

" _Oh_. Is that what happened to that man?"

" _Yes_!" Dorea exclaimed. "And it almost got you, too, but Daddy saved you. And me. I helped."

"What did you do?" Tam asked rather rudely.

" _I_ saw the 'mentor start to take off his hood. He was gonna Kiss you, too!"

"Maybe…" the visitor said doubtfully. "I wanted to see what it was, though."

"Nightmare monsters," Dorea mumbled. "They got a big sucking hole for a mouth, an' no eyes." She shivered.

"Who told you that?" Lorelei frowned.

"Uncle Delph and Cousin Cephus," the girl said promptly.

Of course. Bloody Blacks. It was a miracle her Drake was as sane as he normally appeared, given the things those lunatics thought it was appropriate to tell a child. "I will be having _words_ with those hooligans," she sneered, before adding, "but they're not wrong."

"Not wrong… so that _is_ what they look like?" Tam asked. "Monsters?"

Lorelei nodded. "To witches. As I said, muggles cannot see them at all."

"Huh. I knew they weren't really real," the little girl grinned.

"What do you mean? You could see them?" Dorea asked, saving her mother the trouble. "Why'd you go closer then, dummy?"

"I _told_ you! I wanted to see! It made the man go all _quiet_ , and I wanted to know how!"

"What do you mean ' _quiet_ '?" Lorelei asked, still attempting to come to terms with the fact that the little girl in her muggle dress was apparently a witch.

" _You_ know, like how he was all cold and heavy and weak, and then all that kind of just went away."

Dorea gave their guest a baffled expression. "Cold and heavy? Uncle Delph said the 'mentors make you feel sad, like you'll never be happy again."

The stranger shrugged. "They all feel like that anyway. Didn't you hear about the end of the world?"

"Ragnarok?"

"Ragnar-what?"

"That's how Grandmother Sophia says the world ends. But I think there's sup'osed to be giants, not the 'mentors…"

Lorelei made a mental note to talk to her mother about the sort of things she was teaching her daughter. "Not Ragnarok, poppet. There's been a muggle banking crisis. I'll tell you about it later. For now, I believe we're getting off track. Tam, what happened after my husband cast the Patronus?"

"That's the angel-horse, right?"

The young mother nodded, even as her daughter asked, "What's an angel?"

The other child shrugged. "It's a church thing."

"Like the Inqu'stition?!"

"The what?"

"Girls!" Lorelei interrupted firmly.

Dorea froze on the cusp of her next question, substituting, "Sorry, Mother."

Tam said nothing, looking from Dorea to Lorelei and back several times before finally answering the question: "The… patonus? It chased the dementors back and stood over me until Mr. Black got there, and then there were a bunch of men in red dresses that wanted to send me back to the orphanage, and Mr. Black said no, and the blue-dress woman said the red-dress that was questioning us should stop wasting her time, and Mr. Black said they weren't touching my memory, and something about how the law is for other people, and he drew on my head with blood, here," she pointed, "and said I was a ward of the House of Black. Does that mean I'm adopted?"

Lorelei froze, completely incapable of comprehending these last few phrases. "I'm sorry dear, could you repeat that?"

The girl looked confused. "What? He said the red-dress man was threatening a member of the House of Black, and said I should tell you what happened…"

"Please excuse me for a moment," the lady of the house said stiffly, rising from the sofa and heading toward the door, intent on having a moment with her husband to clarify precisely what he thought he was doing, adopting a fosterling less than two hours before haring off to destinations unknown for an equally unknown span of time, without having the good grace to consult his head of house, or more importantly, _her_.

He met her in the front hall, wearing an expression that matched her own, though by his grumbling, _his_ was due to dealing with the aurors, whereas _she_ had altogether more enduring reasons to be frustrated nearly beyond words. She cast a silent anti-eavesdropping charm before tearing into him, though she could hardly maintain her rage when he caught her eye and asked coldly, "What would you have had me do? Send her back to some muggle children's home? She is a witch, Lorelei, and I'll snap my wand if she's not a natural legilimens to boot. For her sake and that of everyone around her, it is best if she is brought into our world sooner rather than later."

Lorelei shuddered slightly at the sense of foreboding that settled over her as she recognized that particular tone: the one that said _this is what's happening, and damn the consequences._ She squared her shoulders and glared down her nose at her husband. He wasn't _wrong_ , but… "I hope you know what you're doing," she hissed before turning on her heel and heading back to the children.

When she arrived back in the sitting room, she took a minute to compose herself: it would hardly do for the children to see her cursing the walls blue about husbands who did whatever they thought was best, with no thought for the fact that _they_ wouldn't be the ones cleaning up whatever messes resulted. Oh, no. _They_ , or rather, _he_ , would be off gallivanting the world, living the glamorous life of a spy or a diplomat or whatever the Nation required of him, while _she_ attempted to ameliorate the fury of the Head of House Black on discovering their unauthorized ward, pacifying the Ministry, and integrating a three-year-old muggleborn legilimens into their household, hopefully without any accidental mind magic, because, Powers knew, she was no mind mage herself…

 _Bastard_ , she thought, fixing a polite society smile in place as she opeed the door. The girls turned to her attentively.

"Welcome to the House of Black, Miss Riddle," she said serenely, hiding every trace of unease with an effectiveness born of long practice.

The girl grinned, a near-feral expression of triumph, which quickly turned to bafflement and discomfort as Dorea squealed and threw herself on the street urchin in an overly eager embrace.

"I've always wanted a sister!"

"Um…"

Oh, yes, this was going to be a _joy_.


	18. In Love with Your Carnage Summary

**In Love with Your Carnage**

The Ten Things I Hate About You/Harry Potter crossover you never knew you wanted. Okay. That nobody actually wanted. But it exists anyway. Deal with it.

Also: **This fic contains smut!** Bella Black/Bella Zabini. Chapter three kind of hints at it; chapter five is much more explicit. So, yeah... **NSFW**. Consider yourselves warned.

Basically, this is an AU of Coming of Age in the House of Black.

Abraxas Malfoy returned to France after the end of Grindelwald's war, rather than continue to pursue a seat on the British Wizengamot. This has far-reaching effects for the Death Eaters.

Tom instead sought entry to Magical British society through the Rosiers. As such, he has a slightly different circle of contacts – one that never grew to include Cygnus Black because of Druella's falling-out with him over the birth of Narcissa. He never met the young Bellatrix, though he does know _of_ her.

Without Bellatrix involved, the Death Eaters do not escalate the war as quickly. Things are still simmering under the surface in 1975, and raids have become more common since Bartemius Crouch took over as the Head of the DMLE, but they have not yet broken into open warfare. Bella has not killed off all the cadet lines of her House, so there are other Blacks around. She did kill Cygnus, at almost the same time, for the same reason, though not by the same method.

Due to politics within the House of Black, Arcturus and Walburga do not pressure Sirius or Regulus to join the Death Eaters. Sirius is on _slightly_ better terms with his family, and therefore gave Arcturus an ultimatum when he turned fifteen: let him withdraw from the family and live with the Potters, or he will break the Covenant (instead of just breaking the Covenant outright). Lily Evans was never born in this AU, but one of his surviving cousins has pointed out his obsession with James in her place, and in any case, this is not their story.

Regulus has been the Heir since Sirius moved out, just over a year prior to the beginning of the story. Andromeda still disowned herself to be with Tonks five years prior, and they still ran away to Canada, because Bellatrix is still insane, even if she doesn't have the resources of the Death Eaters behind her. Narcissa is the protected and pampered princess of the House – which she hates.

Without the Dark Lord backing her, Arcturus has slightly more control of Bellatrix. He cannot force her to do anything, but he can prohibit her from doing certain things with the family magic, like murdering him. The two of them butt heads frequently, and exist in a state of constant conflict on most issues. Bellatrix's marriage has become a symbol of their struggle for power within the House. Arcturus wants nothing more than to marry her out and make her Somebody Else's Problem. Bellatrix considers him a failure as a patriarch, and wants him to step down, but, failing that, she will settle for making his life a misery and working around him to ensure her sister and younger cousins are kept safe, and the House of Black remains successful, despite Arcturus' neglect.

Abraxas Malfoy, as he is not allied with Tom, is still living in France. (In Coming of Age in the House of Black, he was discretely killed after Lucius started school, as part of Tom's crusade to cut the ties between his original identity and Lord Voldemort.) Lucius moves to England after graduating from Beauxbatons to distance himself from his father and make a name for himself.

(And yes, that title is a trope name. What of it?)


	19. ILWYC: Chapter 1

Yule, 1976

"That's Draco and Caroline Rosier. Their daughter Eleanor is making her debut tonight with Draco Black, over there – they were promised in the cradle.

"That's my cousin Cassius Lestrange – we should go say hello to him, he was just promoted – assistant to the Head of the Department of Transportation.

"Oh! That's Isabella Despereaux, though I hear she's changing it back to Zabini – widowed last year, only twenty-five. Terrible thing, apparently he tried mixing a Sober Up and a Hangover Cure, and drowned in the bath. I hear she's on the lookout for a replacement. Can't say I'd mind…"

Lucius perked up a bit at the mention of a scandal, a break Rabastan Lestrange's otherwise monotonous identification of people he would be advised to meet. Despereaux, or Zabini, whatever her name was, was dressed in crimson and the looks she was giving passing gentlemen were hardly decorous. Whichever one of them she settled on at the end of the night would be a lucky man, he was sure, but she wasn't really his type. She whispered something to the sharp-faced, black-haired witch beside her, with a small nod toward one of the nearby young couples, and her companion smirked.

"Who are they?" he asked, indicating the same couple.

"Polaris and Narcissa Black. He's from one of the cadet branches. She's a first cousin to the Heir. Poor thing is always escorted by family."

Polaris Black was nothing special, but Narcissa, no older than fifteen or sixteen, was beautiful. There was something ethereal about her, like a fae princess come to earth. She wore white, neck and wrists glittering with diamonds, her clear blue eyes and perfectly coifed blonde hair giving an overall impression of an ice-sculpture come to life. Ephemeral perfection. _Much_ more to his taste than the fiery Italian who was still watching her spin with unnatural grace and precision.

"Why is that?" he asked absently, addressing his… friend's comment about the girl's escorts. "Is she making her debut this year?" Sometimes the younger girls in Frankia would attend balls such as this one escorted by fathers or brothers, before they were officially old enough to be courted.

"No, two years past, but her Head of House has sworn that he will not write a marriage contract for her until her elder sister has been married off. That's her, talking to Despereaux."

Lucius let his eyes roam over the elder sister's form again. She, like her friend, was too dark and too… unrefined to catch his eye, but objectively good-looking, he supposed. Striking. She was also at least as old as her friend, which was unusual for one of their set – they, especially the ladies, tended to marry far younger than twenty-five. "I shouldn't think that would be a problem," he noted. "Hasn't she suitors?"

Rabastan snorted. Lucius fought to avoid making a face of disgust at the older man. He had been kind enough to offer Lucius an invitation to this most exclusive gathering – an excuse to get out of the house for the evening and enjoy the holiday a bit – but he was _most_ uncouth. "Oh, plenty," he said scornfully. "Including my elder brother."

"So what, then, is the problem?" Lucius asked, confused. He had arrived from Frankia only a few months before, and did not fully understand the nuances of Magical British politics, but their courting practices were, so far as he knew, quite similar to those he had witnessed at home. With a relatively small pool of potential candidates for a proper match, the Western European pureblood magical communities tended to intermarry often enough that their customs had come to resemble each other over the years.

"Oh, well! The Blackheart's made it very clear she has no intentions to wed, and she has some sort of hold over her Head of House so he can't just force her. It's become a power-play, with Miss Narcissa caught in the middle."

 _Narcissa._ He savored the sound of her name. Already he knew that he wanted her for himself, the flower of youthful, perfect grace, poised before him, almost close enough to reach out and touch, with only one dark, maiden sister standing between them. "How resolute are these intentions of hers?"

"She cut Rodolphus' balls off after the third time he petitioned Arcturus Black for her hand," Rabastan said in a tone so flat that Lucius didn't dare ask whether he was joking.

"And she got away with this? She is still allowed to walk free?" Lucius was shocked. Such violence would hardly be condoned in his home country – not after Grindelwald's War – and certainly not by a _woman_.

"It was a legal duel… technically. She could have killed him – she was toying with him, it was clear. There were many witnesses. That was nearly three years ago, and the reason that Arcturus has decided to use Narcissa's marriage as incentive for someone to find a way to take the vicious bitch off his hands. But no sane wizard will approach her. Everyone knows the story. Young men beg their fathers not to consider a contract with her. Even Rodolphus has given up, but then, she swore she _would_ kill him next time, so… There's a rumor going around that old Arcturus would take her death just as well as her marriage, but quite frankly there's as little chance of one as the other."

Lucius hummed, working the problem. "Is there anyone in Magical Britain who _isn't_ afraid of this witch?"

Rabastan rolled his eyes, then snorted again. "The Dark Lord?" he suggested.

The French wizard pursed his lips slightly as he considered this. Rabastan had been attempting to recruit him for his Dark Lord's cause since shortly after he had arrived in Britain. It was half the reason he had been invited at all this evening. He hadn't even been seriously considering it – he had come to Britain to escape his father's overbearing shadow of influence and make a name for himself. He hardly thought that swearing loyalty to a Dark Lord would be the proper step forward in that regard. But perhaps he should talk to the gentleman in question, if he was truly the only prospect to address the problem of the witch standing between himself and the one he desired.

"I'm going to talk to her," he announced.

" _Bellatrix?_ " Rabastan asked, taken aback.

Lucius scoffed. "Certainly not!" he called over his shoulder as he strode purposefully toward the younger sister.

…

Gemma, a rather distantly related younger cousin, just making her debut, was nattering on at Narcissa about the chances of a match with Barty Crouch, the son of the new Head of the DMLE, when the elder witch felt a wizard's presence sweep up behind her. She turned, poised to curtsey if he was someone she knew, or slap him, if he was one of the too-familiar young sods who had taken to molesting her since she had entered the marriage market with the… unique restrictions her Great Uncle had placed upon her contract price. It had been heavily implied that whosoever could rid him of her older sister would receive the younger girl's hand in marriage. A certain segment of the population seemed to believe that she ought to be so overwhelmed by their manly charms that she would betray her sister's confidences, and help them to seduce or assassinate Bella, and claim Narcissa for themselves.

She sniffed at the grey-eyed, flaxen-haired young wizard, who stepped back and bowed, implying a parity of their stations. "Please allow me to make your acquaintance, mademoiselle," he said smoothly. His accent matched his robes – French and of the very highest quality. She raised an eyebrow at his too-forward greeting – imagine, introducing _oneself_ – but he persisted. "Lucius Malfoy, Heir of le Fief Perdu and the seat of Seigneur Malfoy on le Conseil de Frankia."

She left him hanging for a moment before she accepted his greeting and extended a hand. He brushed his lips, dry and smooth, across her first knuckle – more intimate than most would dare, but then, she supposed he _was_ French. "Narcissa Zaniah, of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black."

" _Enchanté,_ Mademoiselle Black." The look he gave her held far more heat than his words or tone betrayed.

Gemma elbowed her cousin in the ribs, jolting her out of her fascination with his strong chin and the entitled pout of his lips. "I must introduce my cousin, Miss Gemma Black," Narcissa said dutifully. "She is making her first appearance in Society this evening."

The younger girl, a vision in pink and silver, giggled as the French gentleman greeted her properly – though, Narcissa noticed, with less intimacy than he had her. She was not surprised when he turned back to her and requested the next dance – a waltz.

" _Certainement_ ," she acquiesced, ignoring her elder sister's sharp look as she allowed M. Malfoy to lead her onto the dance floor. Even if she could not seriously consider a match until Bellatrix was wed (or dead), she could still enjoy a single dance with a fine young specimen of French wizardry.

They made small talk in French and English – how he was finding Britain; whether she was enjoying the party. He complimented her grace, and she complimented his conversational skill. It was, on the whole, one of the more pleasant dances she had had over the course of the evening, especially since it was one of the few _not_ with a wizard who shared her name, but as such things tended to go, little of substance was exchanged. Too soon, the song ended with a flourish, and he escorted her back to the place where she had left Gemma (who had wandered away, and was flirting with one of the Wilkes boys).

"Might I call upon you later this week?" he asked as her cousin spotted her and made to return to her side.

She hated to disappoint him. She was not opposed to getting to know him better – he was polite and handsome, obviously well-bred and well-monied – an Heir to a French title was nothing to sneer at, though she would have to look into the relative age of his family, and their connections with the British Aristocracy. If it weren't for Paterfamilias Arcturus' injunction against her marriage, she would have allowed him to plight his troth without a second thought. As it was, however, she could not lead him on. "You should know, my Head of House will not allow me to consider a match before my elder sister is wed," she explained quietly.

Malfoy – Lucius – just smirked confidently. "That was not a 'no,'" he observed, as he bowed his farewell.

She smiled in spite of herself, charmed by the slight edge of eager rebelliousness in him and his insouciant confidence. She was still smiling when Gemma disentangled herself from Derik Wilkes and appeared at her side. "Someone's made a conquest," she said in a sing-song voice, irritatingly reminiscent of their elder cousin Meissa.

"Oh, shut up, Gem – you know Pater Arcturus won't let anything come of it. And even if he did, he'd still have to charm his way past Bella."

The younger girl nodded sympathetically. Bellatrix was the eldest of their generation and rather protective of all of them, but none so much as her younger sister. Gemma knew as well as anyone that no one would ever be good enough for Narcissa in Bella's eyes. "Sucks to be you," the younger witch said, in a tone of utter sincerity and condolence that clashed _horribly_ with the unforgivably muggle phrase.

" _You_ have been spending _too_ much time with Sirius!" the elder witch declared, appalled.

Gemma just laughed. "No, he hasn't spoken to me since I told him he was a right wanker for abandoning the Heirship to run panting after Jamie Potter like some two-sickle Knockturn whore."

" _Language_ , Gemma!"

The fifteen-year-old grinned unrepentantly. "I got that one from Uncle Kaven, anyway."

Narcissa bit her tongue on her initial response, which held a slur against Gemma's mother's people. "Watch your mouth," she chided, instead. "Unless you want it getting back to Pater Arcturus that Lady Parkinson overheard you talking like a mudblood at your own debut."

The debutante shivered. "No," she agreed. "Thanks all the same. Oh, look! There's Violette! Come on, Cissy!"

Narcissa sighed, and allowed herself to be dragged away to discuss the trivialities of the ball and her Rosier cousin's holiday, wondering whether M. Malfoy would, indeed, attempt to call upon her in the coming days.


	20. ILWYC: Chapter 2

New Year's Eve, 1976

"You… are you _insane_? You can't just –"

Despite the fact that the Dark Lord on his throne-like seat was thinking very much the same thing, he really couldn't allow anyone else to correct others in his presence. "Lestrange," he drawled, in a rather effective imitation of the high-class Magical British accent, then snapped, " _Shut up_."

Lestrange did, his jaw closing with an audible click. That was almost as amusing as the request the Frankish nobleman beside him had made.

The blond boy (for he _was_ a boy, no older than nineteen, and so naïve that it almost hurt to wrap his mind around the younger wizard's, despite an aura that spoke of more than a passing familiarity with dark magic) looked at his companion askance. "Would your lordship be willing to consider my humble request?" he asked arrogantly.

The Dark Lord smirked. He was more familiar than he cared to recall with Malfoy arrogance. This lad's uncle, one Scorpius Malfoy, had, long ago, been his least favorite year-mate at Hogwarts. "You would swear yourself into my ranks, in exchange for the hand of Narcissa Black? I fail to see how you believe I would accomplish such a boon, given that I am not the head of the good lady's house, nor, indeed, do I perceive any reason I should so favor you." _Do I_ look _like a matchmaker?_ he added in silent, scathing commentary. One really had to do _something_ to amuse oneself in these tedious meetings.

"Please, my Lord," Lestrange groveled. "It is the talk of the noble houses – Arcturus Black is willing to promise the hand of Narcissa, the Second Daughter of his House, to anyone who will… _relieve_ him of Bellatrix, the First Daughter of Black."

"So you ask for a murder in exchange for your loyalty?" the Dark Lord mused.

" _Non_ ," Malfoy said firmly. "If it was ever revealed that I had arranged for her sister's murder, fair Narcissa would never consider my suit!"

"So…" A deep sense of disbelief was working its way to the forefront of the Dark Lord's mind. He couldn't possibly mean…

"I ask your lordship to _court_ Mademoiselle Bellatrix." He did. Oh, that was… positively absurd. "I could make it well worth your while!" the boy added quickly. The Dark Lord simply raised an eyebrow at him. "I am the Heir to the Malfoy fortune! I would, naturally, be willing to support my sworn liege-lord's endeavors, _however_ I might be best suited to do so." He fell silent at last, and the red-eyed wizard blinked at him in astonishment.

Well.

That changed things.

The Malfoys were infamously rich, rivaling the Lestranges with their ill-gotten fortunes. Swear the boy to his banner under those terms, arrange a single 'accident' across the Channel, and his financial resources could grow by nearly half.

But would it be worth it?

He considered all he knew of Bellatrix Black. It was surprisingly little. They had met in passing on several occasions – Magical Britain's High Society was too small for them not to have crossed paths before – but she had never distinguished herself as a person of interest to him. The closest she had come was defeating the elder Lestrange boy in single combat and emasculating him for pressing his suit against her will. Despite what the younger Lestrange might think, his Lord _was_ fully aware of _that_ particular bit of Society gossip, as it had directly impacted the morale of his forces. Even then, he had blamed the general stupidity and incompetence of Lestrange for the loss of the duel and his testicles, and had simply punished him for the embarrassment of having had a second-circle Death Eater so soundly and publically defeated.

Ms. Black herself was little more than a face in the background of Society gatherings, perhaps two decades his junior, distantly related to at least half of his minions. The only truly intriguing thing about her, so far as he could think, was the fact that she obviously had some hold over her Head of House, if he could not simply force her to do his bidding, and marry her off himself. _That_ … whatever it was that she held over him, was a far more worthy pursuit than her hand in marriage, he was sure: the Head of the House of Black was one of the most influential Dark politicians who had thus far resisted the expansion of Lord Voldemort's power.

If he was to agree to this… frankly _ludicrous_ request, he might easily achieve more than one goal: access to the Malfoy fortune _and_ access to whatever information Ms. Black held over her Paterfamilias. The latter was, in fact, the only reason he was actually considering undertaking the task himself, rather than simply ordering one of the younger and more attractive underlings to do it. After all, it wasn't as though seducing witches was _difficult_.

Almost to his own surprise, he found himself debating the relative merits of fulfilling the request.

Presumably there was a reason she had not acceded to a match already, but such reasons were not insurmountable, he was sure. Even if it turned out she was a witches' witch, so much the better: this could be a purely business arrangement. He himself didn't actually need or desire a wife (for his Dark Lord _or_ his French pureblood persona), and there was no point in attempting to secure an heir if one intended to live forever. He supposed she might conceivably make a nuisance of herself, especially if she expected to live with him, but if she grew _too_ tedious, he supposed he could just kill her _after_ they were wed.

His young Death Eater and the even younger recruit were still watching him warily, as he considered the options. At long last, he gave them his most devious smile. "I believe we have ourselves an accord, M. Malfoy."

It was only too easy to lead the boy through the vows of homage, loyalty, and fidelity. The Dark Mark followed immediately – the Dark Lord did not even demand that the recruit kill to prove his resolve, for fear he would fail that test, and thus ruin the chances of his acquiring the Malfoy fortune.

When the blond had been dismissed to recover from the pain of the Marking, he ordered Lestrange to fetch the youngest of the Yaxley brothers for him. "I have a task for young Ambrose… a little trip to Paris…"

* * *

January 1977

"Pater Arcturus? M. de Mort is here for your two o'clock appointment, regarding a marriage proposal."

"Send him in, then," Arcturus sighed, waving away his assistant, one of the more distantly related cadets of the House. Maybe, he thought, he would be lucky, and this particular young idiot would be interested in making an offer for Gemma, instead of Narcissa. In hindsight, it had been a great deal more trouble than he had anticipated, making Bellatrix's removal from the House of Black a condition of Narcissa's availability to wed, but he would be damned if he went back on that vow now. _That_ would be tantamount to an admission to the family and the whole of society that the thrice-cursed First Daughter held more power in the House of Black than its Paterfamilias!

The insufferable child still hadn't come to terms with his passing her over as the Heir in Waiting all those years ago. Even if she hadn't sold her soul to the Dark and with it her humanity, that alone would be proof that she wasn't well-suited to the position. Not to mention the way she was far more interested than was healthy in arithmancy and the Dark Arts, spending all her time on academic pursuits rather than following her mother into Society. Say what you would about Druella Rosier's parenting skills, she was an _excellent_ politician and society wife to Cygnus.

The Head of the House of Black was still pondering the shortcomings of his least-favorite great-niece when Polaris returned, leading a rather more mature wizard than he had been expecting. At his age, he wouldn't exactly call the other man _old_ – he was, Arcturus judged, likely only about fifty years of age – but neither Gemma nor Narcissa was likely to be receptive of a suitor closer to their parents' age than their own. _Older_ than their parents, in Gemma's case. Perhaps he was here to negotiate on behalf of a son, or some other, younger family member.

The Frenchman bowed precisely, introducing himself as Thom de Mort, Head of his House.

Arcturus sneered. He knew of all the European families with a status comparable to that of the Blacks. De Mort was _not_ one of them. _Mortis_ , yes, but _de Mort_ sounded like an unrecognized bastard branch of the family if ever he had heard of one.

"Let me save you from wasting our valuable time, Monsieur… de Mort," he interrupted, not even bothering to rise to return the greeting. "The House of Black does not ally itself with peasants, and foreign peasants, at that."

The stranger's eyes narrowed, and he raised an eyebrow at his host's rudeness, but apparently decided to bluff the situation out. "Who said anything about an _alliance_ , Lord Black? Surely this is more of a… business arrangement. It was my… understanding that you required a certain _service_ rendered, which none of the so-worthy scions of your _noble_ British houses are willing to take on."

All at once, Arcturus' mood shifted, as he realized the intent behind de Mort's vague letter requesting a meeting. "So this is not about Gemma, or Narcissa?"

The younger wizard smirked. "Oh, it is about Miss Narcissa, at least indirectly. But it is the elder Daughter's hand I seek."

The Head of Black was hard-pressed not to laugh at his confidence. "How does Narcissa factor into it, then?" he asked suspiciously.

"Let us just say… it has been made worth my while, to tame your harridan and clear the way for an interested party to press his suit with her lovely sister. Thus I find myself in the admittedly unexpected position of humbly requesting a contract of marriage to Bellatrix Black, First Daughter of your House."

At that Arcturus did truly chuckle, rather sinisterly. "Should you manage to convince her, I am sure we can come to some sort of mutually acceptable arrangement," he sneered, for the sake of form, though inside he grinned giddily. It had been _months_ since there had been any suitors for Bellatrix. "Unfortunately my agreement alone is not sufficient to compel her cooperation, so you shall, in fact, have to play court to her, but in the unlikely event you succeed, you shall have my blessing."

De Mort nodded, a certain hint of smugness playing around his lips as he did so. He _clearly_ had no idea what he was up against.


	21. ILWYC: Chapter 3

June 1977

"Good morning, starshine." Isabella Zabini stretched herself out languidly on the chaise lounge in her best friend's study. She made a very attractive, very _distracting_ picture, and she knew it.

Nevertheless, Bella was ignoring her. She hummed a greeting under her breath without even looking up.

This was not so unusual a state of affairs, especially when she had spent the night. The Black witch was prone to flashes of inspiration in the small hours, and often abandoned her bed to outline a curse to stop the reversion of animagi to their human form at the point of death or something equally useless. At the moment, she was engaged in a debate on the nature of the multiverse with some bloke who called himself Merfyn in the pages of _Árthra Endiaféronta_ , the Dark Arts research journal out of Miskatonic. Apparently she had thought of some way of countering his latest point, because she was scribbling furiously at her desk. She had tried explaining the theory to Zee on more than one occasion, but it might as well have been Greek to the Italian.

" _Bellaaaa_ , as fascinating as it is to watch you work, I didn't come over to watch you do your best Ravenclaw impression." She had, in fact, been looking forward to a round of morning sex before making her way back out to the real world, where she had an important date with one Daniel Charleston, or, as Bella liked to refer to him, the future late Mr. Zabini.

Nothing.

Isabella sighed, and padded out of the room to get dressed and see if her friend had any tea. This was a task made doubly irritating due to the fact that there were no elves at the Cottage. Arcturus had forbidden the Black Family Elves to serve Bella, and Bella had something against the cheerful little creatures, anyway. She had once mentioned that she had had been disowned by an elf when she was a child, and she hadn't got on with them since. Like many ( _many_ ) of the things the Black witch had mentioned casually and in passing over the years, Zee could not be sure whether this was a joke of some sort, or not. It seemed too strange to be true, but then, Bella was _very_ odd.

In any case, the lack of elves meant that she had to both make her own tea, _and_ that such trivial items as tea were often not replaced for weeks or months at a time when Bella ran out and decided that they were less important than working out the theoretical feasibility of time travel.

Sure enough, the kitchen was a mess, and the cupboards nearly bare. From the look of the sink, her friend had been subsisting on porridge and nutrient potions for several days at least. Isabella rolled her eyes. The prisoners at _Azkaban_ ate better than that, she was pretty sure. There was tea, though, and sugar (but no milk).

She brought her cup back into the study, and swapped Bella's for her inkwell. "When was the last time you left this house, Bee?" she asked sternly.

The dark-haired witch finally looked up to give her a reproachful glare, but she did accept the tea. "What's today?"

"The twelfth."

"Of?"

" _June_ , you moron. Are you seriously telling me you don't even – _Bella_! This is why people think you're a crazy person."

Bella smirked. "Actually, you're the only person who thinks I'm a crazy person for being a recluse. Most of them think I'm insane for the Lestrange thing. Or the thing with Arcturus. Or, well… lots of reasons, but not because of that. And I went out last week to back up Eridanus' objections to the Parkinson alliance and pick up supplies."

Isabella ignored the reference to the Black Family's internal politics. She had heard it all before, and in any case, she had a more important point to make. "What supplies? There is literally no food in your kitchen."

"I picked up a few muggles to experiment on – I needed to run animal trials for that exsanguination curse I told you about. And I stopped at the Nameless Bookshop – Anomos was hinting they'd got a new Egyptian manuscript in, but it turns out it was just a fragment of Ptolemy, nothing useful."

Isabella tutted at her friend as she sifted through the post that had accumulated in the Black witch's in-box, still holding the ink-well hostage. About a two thirds of the letters were obviously cursed or enchanted – possibly port-keys from Narcissa's less-than-scrupulous suitors, though at least half of them were from various Blacks. Due to Bella's habit of defending her younger cousins' interests from their parents and grandparents, Arcturus was not the only one who thought their lives would all be much easier if she were simply to disappear. She had been caught by one of these only once, and spent what she claimed were several very enjoyable months in 1968 in the middle of a war zone before making her way back to England and developing what she termed 'improvements' of a petroleum-based muggle incendiary potion. Arcturus had not been amused when she tested it on the home of the uncle whom she believed to be responsible for that particular port-key, though Isabella had thought bright blue conflagration – which burned straight through wards meant to subdue even the darkest of magical flames – was very pretty.

Several of those letters that remained looked like official Ministry reprimands or summons, which Bella invariably ignored, under the assumption that if it was truly important, they would contact Arcturus, who would send one of her cousins to tell her the message in person. Most of the others were from names Zee recognized as academics and dark arts enthusiasts. The one that caught her eye, however, was an indigo envelope sealed with a creamy-white death's head. "De Mort sent you another letter, and you haven't even looked at it?!"

Over the past six months, Thomas de Mort had sent flowers, chocolates, and jewelry to her friend, all of which had been rebuffed, along with his invitations to dinner, theater events, balls, and every other occasion and public event to which a well-bred witch might be expected to accompany a suitor. The last several had been sent back with particularly nasty return-to-sender jinxes. Zee was curious how much longer the Frenchman would maintain his interest in the face of Bella's resolute 'no,' but the Black witch was clearly getting irritated with the situation.

"I'm working on it! I've had a thought on how to suspend fiendfire as a return-to-sender jinx – it should be fairly spectacular if it works out…"

"Bee! Overkill much? Why won't you give him a chance?"

"Because he seems to think 'no' means I'm playing the blushing maiden, and he's probably only interested in the first place because someone's paying him or something. And it's more fun to find creative ways to destroy his letters. I'm getting seriously annoyed, now, though. It's been almost six months! If he keeps this up past the solstice, I've decided I'm going to frame him for murder."

The Italian giggled at her friend's too-serious expression. She didn't doubt the other witch could and would do it, but it was still amusing to hear her say so in such a matter-of-fact way.

"'Dear Ms. Black,'" she read, cracking open the seal. "'Despite your continued silence, you are always in my thoughts. It would please me greatly if you would consider me as an escort to this year's Bacchanalia…' blah, blah, blah. You should go, though," she added, "I'm going with Daniel."

Bella made a face. "You and the future late Mr. Zabini are welcome to it."

"Bee, I'm telling you this as your friend. Possibly your _only_ friend," she teased gently. "You _need to get out more_."

The other witch gave her the trademark Black smirk. "Why bother, when you can be convinced to come to me? Now are you going to give me my inkwell back, or do I need to fight you for it?"

Isabella sighed, but decided to let it go. "I was thinking more of a bribe," she winked, tossing de Mort's letter back onto Bella's desk, and sauntering back toward the bedroom, taking the inkwell with her. She threw a smirk over her shoulder, and was pleased to see that the Black witch looked more than willing to join her for that morning romp after all.

…

The announcement of the death of Seigneur Armand Malfoy was, on the whole, a rather understated affair. Nearly six months after joining the forces of the Dark Lord Voldemort in pursuit of fair Narcissa, Lucius had received a letter from his uncle, Scorpius, demanding his presence for his father's funeral. Apparently it was some kind of potions accident – suspicious, because Armand Malfoy had been a more-than-competent brewer, but no one could prove any foul play. Lucius didn't know what to think about this turn of events.

He had, of course, attended the funeral. He had also spent several weeks attending to the affairs of the family, putting them in order and appointing his uncle as his proxy on the Conseil before returning to England and de Mort. It was not, after all, as though he could leave the side of his sworn lord, given the binding magic anchored in his very soul.

It was not every day that he cursed his hasty agreement to take the Dark Lord's mark, but it was a very close thing. Every other day, at least.

For one thing, he was now in a position to fulfil the rash financial promises he had made, and for another, he was still no closer to winning the hand of his chosen bride. If he hadn't managed to extract a vow from the Dark Lord that he would pursue the elder Black witch with all possible efficiency, he would have suspected the older wizard of shirking his end of the agreement.

As it was, he decided to use the lack of progress on that front as an excuse not to follow through on his own obligations: after all, he had not yet seen any proof of services rendered, which had been the essence of the agreement – Lucius would swear himself to the Cause and provide a percentage of his considerable financial holdings on his inheritance of the Malfoy fortune, and the Dark Lord would ensure that his path to Narcissa Black was cleared.

Of course, he had assumed that he would not inherit for some time to come, and he had even been considering asking his father to incorporate their holdings, or to pass the majority of the family wealth into a trust, rather than devolving it onto him individually, in order to wriggle out of the most onerous part of the obligation. If he, personally, inherited relatively little (and especially if he could make it seem as though this was through no fault of his own), then he would owe the Dark Lord far less, while simultaneously remaining in control of the vast majority of his resources. But he had not trusted an explanation that particular request to an international post owl, and he had decided it would be too suspicious to visit his family so soon after making such an agreement. It would have been far better to wait until the next time his father had called him home, to avoid any potential fingers pointed at him in arranging such a work-around. But now it was too late.

The best he could do was refuse to complete his end of the deal until the Dark Lord followed through on his own task, and hope that Ms. Bellatrix would hold out against him long enough for Lucius to find some other way to 'lose' control of most of his assets. After all, it would not do to win Narcissa's hand, only to find himself a pauper, unable to support the lifestyle to which she was doubtless accustomed.

The Dark Lord had been furious at this response, sizzling cold magic flooding the audience chamber, plucking at the Mark, but bound as he was by his own vow and its reciprocal nature, there was little he could do, even given the strength of that connection. If he killed Lucius, there was no way he would ever receive the funds he had promised. Just in case, though, the Frenchman decided, it would be best if he had some additional leverage of his own – in the event that he didn't find a financial way to dodge Lord Voldemort's demands, it would be helpful to have some other incentive for the older wizard to refrain from demanding he follow through. In fact, it would probably be a good idea regardless, given that the Dark Lord would likely not receive his treachery well, should that endeavor, in fact, succeed.

With that thought in mind, he wrote a letter, calling on one of his newly inherited House Elves to deliver it:

 _My dearest Uncle,_

 _I find myself in need of information: I have recently met a wizard of great strength who claims to be one of our fellow countrymen, but I cannot place his name. Are you familiar with a M. Thomas de Mort, or have you any contacts who know of him? Anything you may be able to tell me would be useful..._

…

When the response arrived, Lucius laughed himself sick. Thomas de Mort was, according to his Uncle's best efforts at tracking the man, not a pureblood, as he claimed, nor even a Frankish citizen at all. Apparently it had taken a great deal of effort to track down a photo of the Dark Lord un-glamored, but when he had, his uncle had recognized the other wizard at once. His true name, according to Scorpius, was Tom Riddle, half-blood British pretender to the title Heir of Slytherin, and Scorpius' former yearmate at Hogwarts.

With _that_ little nugget of information in hand, the newly-minted Lord Malfoy felt more than confident in pushing ahead with his efforts as June became July, and Narcissa Black returned from school, NEWT qualifications in hand.


	22. ILWYC: Chapter 4

July 1977

"Cissy!"

Narcissa flinched at the sound of her elder sister's voice, throwing off the timing on the shield that _ought_ to have reflected Regulus' cutting curse back at him. Instead it struck her right shoulder, slicing through pale skin and the muscle beneath so neatly that it hardly hurt until she attempted to lift her wand again and blood coursed from the wound. "Bugger!"

Regulus laughed, a sound as carefree as ever it had been when he was a child, but now with a note of deepness that made Narcissa squirm uncomfortably. Not for the first time, she concealed a longing glance, acutely aware of how much her baby cousin had matured over the past two years. "One-naught!"

"Oh, stuff it," the girl pouted. "Come over here and heal this, I can't get the angle…"

Regulus was halfway through repairing the damage he had caused when Bellatrix arrived in full dudgeon.

"Cissy, what is this?!" she demanded, waving a sheet of parchment in her sister's face.

Narcissa snatched it from her hand. "I'm sure I haven't the faintest idea," she snapped. Though upon examination it appeared to be, "A request for an audience, it would seem. From Seigneur Malfoy. I fail to see the source of your concern, sister."

"'In light of our correspondence over the course of the past months,'" Bellatrix quoted with a pointed glare. "What do you think you're doing, _corresponding_ with this… _suitor_?"

Narcissa felt herself flush. She had not mentioned said correspondence for exactly this reason: she had known that Bellatrix would overreact to the idea that Narcissa was, in fact, truly in favor of marriage. Not that she thought she was in favor of marriage to Malfoy. For all she found his slight rebelliousness and infatuation attractive, he was rather unpleasantly arrogant and altogether too… _refined_ for her tastes. (She kept comparing him to Regulus in her mind, and finding him wanting, for all his five years' seniority and newly-inherited title.) "It's only letters! Speaking of which, why are you reading my post?!"

"You're staying at my house: it was delivered to me. I had every right," the elder witch sniffed.

"Dragonshite!"

"Cissy!" Regulus looked appalled by her language, but also amused.

"You know it's true, Regulus! My post is my business!"

"But your visitors are not," Bellatrix interrupted coolly. "You will _not_ meet with this… _Malfoy_ without a chaperone."

" _Fine_!" Narcissa snapped. "I'm sure Regulus will –"

"Nonsense," Bellatrix scoffed. "Regulus is but a child."

"I'm almost sixteen now, Bella!" the young man objected.

She raised an unimpressed brow at him before turning back to Narcissa. " _I_ will chaperone any and all meetings between yourself and this Malfoy character personally."

" _Bella_! You'll scare him off!"

"If he can be scared off by the mere presence of a chaperone, he is not made of stern enough stuff to marry a Black," the elder witch smirked.

"But –"

"My house, my rules," Bella snapped. "You're welcome to return to the Keep or Ancient House if you prefer."

There was no chance that Narcissa would return to living with Pater Arcturus (whose fault this whole mess with her marriage was) or her mother (who nagged her endlessly about the situation, despite her inability to resolve it). All three of them knew it. "Perhaps I'll go stay with Auntie Walburga!"

All three of them knew that that was an empty threat, as well. Narcissa too dearly loved being the lady of the Cottage in all but name to return to being treated as a child in any of her aunts' or cousins' houses. "Do tell the elves to stock the pantry before you leave," Bella taunted, spinning on her heel and stalking back toward the house.

Narcissa waited until she was certain the elder witch was out of earshot before she growled, "Ooh, she makes me so _angry_!"

Regulus snorted, snagging the letter out of her hand. "Well, she's a far sight better than living with my mother, and you know it."

The witch sighed. She did. The only rules at the Cottage were that Narcissa's elves (brought with her from Ancient House, because Narcissa simply did not cook) were to keep out of Bella's study, and if Zee was spending the night, Narcissa should not open any closed doors. The latter was more of a self-imposed guideline than anything else: neither Bella nor her lover appeared to mind too terribly when she had had the misfortune to walk in on them in the bath, but Narcissa was certain she had been scarred for life. She had had no idea her sister was that _flexible_ , and more to the point, _she hadn't wanted to know_.

"What's this?" the wizard asked. "'I would be most obliged if you could shed any additional light on the problem we have discussed, as my current approach does not appear to have been in any way productive.'"

Narcissa sighed. "Bellatrix. She's the problem. Lucius has arranged for someone to try to court her. One M. de Mort. I think she's trying to frame him for the murder of Mr. Carmichael now. She and Zee were talking about it the other day."

"Framing a potential suitor for murder seems a bit… extreme. Even for Bella," Regulus chuckled.

"That's what Zee said, but he's been at it since Yule," Narcissa explained. "And he doesn't seem to be inclined to take 'no' for an answer. Bella told Zee that if she wants her husband murdered, she can let de Mort take the fall, or she can do it herself."

The wizard's eyes widened. "What, truly?"

"Well, you know how Bella is. She gave an ultimatum, Zee caved, and then they had make-up sex in the study. They keep forgetting the silencing wards," she explained with a flush, in answer to Regulus' questioning expression.

"Ah." That revelation killed the conversation for several minutes. They sat at the edge of the dueling ground, avoiding looking at each other, until Regulus asked haltingly: "Do you… like him? Malfoy? Would you accept his suit, I mean, if you could?" There was a note of petulant jealousy in his tone.

Narcissa sighed. This was the other reason it was so difficult to ignore her attraction to her cousin: it was clear that he was similarly attracted to her. She shrugged lightly. "Perhaps."

Regulus pouted, the fullness of his lips a striking contrast to the sharp Black cheekbones and the strong jawline that he had developed over the course of the past year. She leaned forward without thinking and pressed her own against them. When she pulled back, he looked quite stunned, as though she had hit him in the face with a bludger, rather than a rather chaste and unadventurous kiss.

"Narcissa…"

"Yes?"

"You…"

"You thought I didn't know," she smirked.

He nodded. "And you…?"

She flushed, ever so slightly, and nodded. "I… Lucius is… a tool. He has somehow motivated this de Mort to woo Bella, and against all the odds, he seems to stand a sporting chance of succeeding, as she's not managed to dissuade him yet. I rather think I must continue to give Lucius hope until Bella is convinced, lest he somehow withdraw his countryman from the fray. But once Bella is safely wed, I will be free to marry whomever I choose."

Regulus sighed. "Not _anyone_ , though. Pater Arcturus would never approve…"

Narcissa glared at him. "You know as well as I do that we're not related by blood."

It was true: Narcissa was a bastard, an open secret within the House, though she had been claimed as a daughter of Black regardless, and accorded full rights as such. It was that very acknowledgment which would make it difficult, if not impossible, for Regulus to press his suit: his own parents had been first cousins, and even the Blacks were wary of too many overly-close matches in subsequent generations. Blood-cousins or no, they shared a family name, which would be enough for a scandal if they were to attempt to wed, and neither Arcturus nor their parents would likely allow such a thing.

"You know as well as I do that that doesn't matter."

The witch did her best impression of her elder sister: "Consequences are for lesser mortals, Black," she sneered.

He laughed. "So, what? You keep leading Malfoy on, we help de Mort woo Bella, and then when she's no longer an obstacle…"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," she claimed confidently, and was rewarded with a grin and a shy (but not tentative) reciprocation of her kiss.

"We should contact de Mort and warn him about the murder thing," Regulus said, flushing slightly as he pulled away, sending darting glances toward the Cottage.

Narcissa beamed. "I'll get his address. You'll have to write him, though. If Bella's reading my post…"

"Of course," Regulus smirked in return, then levered himself off the ground and offered her a hand. "Best two out of three?"

…

The Dark Lord contemplated the letter before him, wondering distantly at what point his life had become so thoroughly absurd.

 _My Dear M. de Mort_ , it read. _Please forgive the forwardness of contacting you so directly, but a mutual friend has brought it to my attention that you might value some advice in the pursuit of a certain witch…_

Bellatrix Black was, he would admit, becoming increasingly irritating as she resisted the common attempts he had made to garner her attentions, replying with ever-more-vicious rejections. He could appreciate the effort she had apparently gone to with her return-to-sender jinxes (the latest had nearly knocked out the wards designed to capture and neutralize any cursed post) but six months of this obnoxious behavior was simply absurd. Apparently the witch thought so as well, because according to her cousin, apparently writing on behalf of Lucius' prize, she was considering an attempt to frame him for murder in order to convince him to desist.

And this… _boy_ was offering to spy for him, to obtain information, in order to… please his cousin, apparently. Or perhaps he was only acting as an intermediary.

The Dark Lord scowled. Utterly absurd. He had never been one to accept help of any sort – that was tantamount to admitting that he _needed_ help, and Tom Riddle needed no one!

But he would admit that accepting the offered… _assistance_ might speed the process a bit. He was becoming quite anxious to have the Malfoy fortune in hand: negotiations with the goblins were proceeding apace, and it would be remarkably useful to have a few million galleons to throw around before they reached a head.

He penned a swift acceptance to Regulus Black before turning to the problem posed by the _second_ most irritating witch in his life: Antistita Discordiae, as she called herself in her articles for _Árthra Endiaféronta_. For someone who claimed a goddess of chaos as her Patron, she was surprisingly logical, and she had come up with a most creative rebuttal to his latest thought experiment regarding the nature of the multiverse and the infeasibility of truly _changing_ the future through time travel. Much as he hated to admit it, he was slowly becoming convinced of her argument that whether or not time was _changed_ was a matter of perspective.

…

"Cissy!" Regulus called urgently, almost before he exited the floo.

"Reg?"

"Is Bella here?"

"No, she said she was going to make a nuisance of herself at the Wizengamot meeting. In her words, dear Papa gets uppity when he thinks she's not paying him enough attention. Why?"

Regulus grinned. " _He wrote back_! What say you we raid the Study and try to find something useful for him."

Narcissa mirrored his expression perfectly.


	23. ILWYC: Chapter 5

July 1977

The Dark Lord was bemused.

Surely, the young Black who had taken it upon himself to 'help' with the wooing of his older cousin could have no idea who he was. And yet he had apparently thought it a good idea to include in his letter a list of illegal texts he knew the witch to own; development notes on several Black Arts rituals and an _extraordinarily_ dark curse which he _thought_ was intended to exsanguinate the victim, but which would probably actually result in all the blood in said victim's body to dry at once as the water was removed from the bloodstream; and most damning of all, a copy of the most second-most-recent _Árthra Endiaféronta_. While she might have been able to write off the books as heirlooms and the development notes as not technically illegal unless there was some proof that she had actually _used_ the rituals or curse in question, the Miskatonic journal was entirety anathema, and as such it was a minimum sentence of two years in Azkaban to be caught in possession of it. If 'Thom de Mort' had been any sort of law abiding citizen, there was a very good chance that Miss Bellatrix would have the aurors on her doorstep by lunchtime.

Perhaps his lack of concern over the idea that she might be planning to frame him for murder had given away the fact that he wasn't.

Or perhaps it was the fact that he had not reported her return-to-sender jinxes as being well outside the realm of legality.

In any case, he was _not_ a law-abiding citizen (no matter how much it occasionally amused him to pretend to be one) and had no intention of going to the authorities with this evidence. Despite the fact that he suspected such a course of action might be a much faster route to removing the obstruction to Malfoy's plans which was the elder Miss Black, it was not in accordance with the deal he had made or the vow he had sworn.

And even if it had been, he suspected that he might have hesitated, because he couldn't help but note, as he flipped idly through the journal, that the witch had heavily annotated the article he had submitted… including several ideas and phrases which later made it into the response published in the July issue: Bellatrix Black and Antistita Discordiae were, apparently, one and the same.

All at once, he realized, somewhat to his own surprise, the witch in question had become altogether more interesting than either the stubborn young lady or his mysterious correspondent had been individually. While he had initially taken on the task of wedding her for the sake of the Malfoy fortune, he found he was now genuinely intrigued.

Perhaps, he mused, running a critical eye over her hastily-scrawled comments again, _perhaps_ she had rejected his advances because she found the idea of Thom de Mort and his so-conventional gifts and invitations as dull as he did the average socialite. If he approached her as the Dark Lord, instead…

Well, the outcome was sure to be far more amusing for both of them, regardless of her reaction.

August 1977

"What's that?"

Bella looked up from the letter in her hand to see a very curious Zee peering around the doorway to her study.

"You can come in," she said, with only the slightest emphasis on _you_. She had never kept the door closed before Narcissa came home from Hogwarts; much as she cared about her cousins, and her baby sister in particular, living with her was often exhausting. It was nice to pretend, occasionally, that she was still alone here. (Zee, whom she had known since they were both eleven, was more or less exempt from consideration as 'other people' – her presence was not nearly so disturbing to Bella's sense of solitude as that of Narcissa.)

The other witch took up her usual pose – not quite a _seat_ – on the chaise lounge. She was nominally clothed today, however (wearing a robe which fastened low enough to make it clear she had no blouse or brassiere beneath it, and Bella would be _very_ surprised if she had suddenly decided to invest in knickers). This was a relatively recent development: after a highly amusing encounter which involved a very embarrassed Narcissa and an argument over tea, the Italian had taken to wearing at least a chemise at all times, in deference to the fact that the younger witch _did_ now live in the Cottage as well, and they weren't all nudists and/or entirely oblivious to said nudity.

In point of fact, Bella was not _entirely_ oblivious to said nudity, and she was fairly certain that Zee was more of a nymphomaniac than a nudist (the nudity being a by-product of her near-constant attempts to get Bella into bed), but those points were entirely irrelevant in the argument about whether it was appropriate for Zee to lounge around the Cottage entirely unclad when Narcissa was also likely to be present.

"You didn't answer my question," Zee noted, selecting a book on undetectable poisons from the table beside the chaise and opening it to the marker she had left in it the week before.

"An invitation to audition for a position with the Death Eaters," Bella answered absently. "It seems that they are always 'seeking new talent in the Dark Arts.' I'm trying to figure out how Lord Voldemort discovered my work, let alone that I am Antistita Discordiae."

Zee snatched the letter from her hand, book abandoned on the chaise, before Bella finished her last sentence. She skimmed it over with an expression of delighted astonishment plastered across her features, and giggled on reaching the end of the short missive. "Perhaps he's that Merfyn character you've been flirting with for the past year and a half."

"I haven't been _flirting_ ," Bella objected. "I've been explaining to him why his entire conception of the way the multiverse functions is _wrong_."

"Yes, yes, and what that has to do with time travel. I know. It's adorable. Like a second-year starting fights just to get his attention."

"Don't be ridiculous," the Black witch sniffed dismissively. "I don't fight to flirt, I fight to _win_."

Zee put on her most charming grin. "I can't help it. Ridiculousness is my default state." That was a lie. Zee's 'default state' was cold-hearted, selfish, and more than a little ruthless. She just hid it better than Bella, under a thick layer of seduction and silliness. "And I know flirting when I see it, thanks ever so. Are you honestly telling me you get nothing out of the fact that he _always_ writes back?"

"There's nothing wrong with appreciating a sharp-witted opponent."

The other witch laughed again. "Did I say there was? No. Just that you like him. So. You should go to this meeting; have your audition, or whatever, and try to figure out if Lord Voldemort is your mystery scholar."

"Do you know what the probability of that would be? Hang on, I'll do the arithmancy," Bella snarked.

"I bet it's higher than you think. I mean, he obviously _reads_ your work, at least. And apparently understands it, if this is any indication," she nodded toward the letter in her hand. "So that narrows the field to about… half a dozen, I'd say."

Bella snorted involuntarily. "Just because _you_ don't follow it… there are more than six people in the world who know what I'm talking about, Zee."

The other witch did not look convinced. "I still think you should go. Do something social for once, you know."

"You always think I should go do something social for once. I was at the Wizengamot meeting last month, and I _just_ presided over the Family's Lammas celebrations."

Zee rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean. Something _fun_. And don't even dare say that Lammas was fun – I know how you feel about your family and their politics!"

"And yet you think I'll find _auditioning for the Death Eaters_ to be an enjoyable diversion."

The seductress spun Bella's chair away from the desk and settled onto her lap, face to face, her knees on either side of Bella's hips, demanding her full attention. "Admittedly, I can think of several _more_ enjoyable diversions," she smirked, shifting her weight suggestively, "but what's not to like about going out, meeting someone who shares your interest in dark magic and torture, and who is apparently intelligent enough to appreciate your work? Even if you don't care a bit about his politics, I should think that alone would make it worth it."

"Does it not strike you as a bit odd, for my lover to be telling me to go out and meet other people?" The dark-eyed witch asked, mostly rhetorically, her fingers creeping up the other woman's smooth, toned thighs, almost out of habit, sketching trails of runes and geometric patterns on soft skin with short, sharp nails in a way that never failed to make the lover in question shiver in anticipation. Bella grinned, always pleased to get a reaction, especially when it was entirely expected.

"Well, I'm married now: I can't be here for you all the time," 'Mrs. Charleston' smirked.

She was kidding, of course. Nine times out of ten, she was the instigator of situations such as this, regardless of her marital status. Not that Bella _minded_ , precisely, but... she didn't _miss_ the sex when Zee disappeared on her for weeks or months a time in pursuit of her latest conquest. And in any case she already 'wasn't there' for Bella in certain ways, even when she was kneeling on her lap, practically begging to be fucked: there were limits to the sort of games the violet-eyed temptress was willing to entertain in the name of friendship, and they had long since discovered that Bella preferred her pleasures far sharper than Zee could withstand.

She quoted a siren song blithely in response, translating as she went: " _'What agony, to see the one I crave so near and yet beyond my reach; she hears my song and still she clings to land and sky, bound to another who holds her heart safe from the sea-call and my arms.'_ "

Zee giggled, tangling her fingers in Bella's hair as she leaned in for a kiss, the scent of her arousal rising around them. "Someday I'll get you to teach me the songs of the sea," she teased. That seemed rather unlikely. Zee did not have Bella's gift for languages, but it was true that she had enough raw sensuality that she might be able to pull off Siren Song anyway, if she could be convinced to sit still long enough to try. Bella rather doubted she would do so. "But speaking of being bound to another, do you still want to kill two birds with one stone, as it were?"

Bella shrugged, her thoughts immediately diverted from imagining the chaos her lover could wreak with the magical language if she were just a bit more patient. "I haven't had a letter from de Mort in weeks, so it may not be necessary. I'll still do the current Mr. Zabini for you, though, if you like," she offered, one hand migrating to release hardened nipples from the confines of Isabella's robe (such as it was). With Zee perched in her current position, they were at the perfect height for suckling, though Bella preferred to lick at them, then blow across the wet skin, already too-sensitive from her attention, sending shivers down her friend's spine even as she squirmed away.

"Bellaaa, don't _do_ that," Zee whined.

With a challenging smirk, she drew a single fingertip along the crease of her friend's nether lips so lightly as to be almost imperceptible… or, as she had intended, maddeningly tantalizing. (She had been correct: there were no knickers present.)

She grinned at the whimper that escaped the other woman and the involuntary lurch of her hips, as much as at the thought that if _she_ were to take care of that particular 'bird,' it would be with something considerably more fun than an undetectable poison.

Zee considered murder a means to an end: an altogether unexciting chore. Bella, on the other hand, was getting _quite_ excited thinking about the prospect, and wondering how long she might be able to keep dear Daniel alive and conscious to play with. At _least_ three days, she thought. More if she only used muggle toys on him, and healed him with magic.

The impatient minx seemed to realize that she was less than entirely focused on the task at hand. She wandlessly unbuttoned Bella's robes, slipping long, supple fingers into her drawers, seeking verification that the Black witch was interested in her ministrations, despite her casual façade. She smirked when she found it. "I couldn't care less one way or the other, but it seems _you_ would like that very much. You know, this is why you should think about actually meeting with the Dark Lord. I bet the two of you would get on splendidly." She was wearing an expression that suggested her renewed attempts to get Bella out of the Cottage more often were some sort of revenge for her own teasing. "You know, I'm _sure_ he'd help you murder whomever you liked, _however_ you liked, if –"

Bella cut off that train of thought before it became too distracting. She was not going to become a Death Eater, no matter how much easier it might make acquiring suitable subjects for experimentation (and the satisfaction of desires too dark for Zee to accommodate). "Have I told you lately that you talk too much?"

Zee giggled. "Not _today_ , n- _oh!_ " This time, she cut herself off, instantly distracted as Bella plunged two fingers into her, massaging her clit with her thumb. The ' _oh_ ' of surprise was followed almost immediately by a moan of pleasure. "Oooh, Bella – more."

Bella shook her head. Had she not been clear on the talking thing? She smirked at her silent joke as she silenced the violet-eyed brunette more thoroughly with a kiss, and reclaimed her hand to lift the shorter witch with her as she moved to the chaise. The mechanics of her desk chair were simply not suitable for _more_.


	24. The East Wind Rises Summary

**The East Wind Rises**

This is a recursive AU, based on the story Between Lives, a Sherlock crossover which I should really finish. I'm going to end it at the end of the fourth series of Sherlock, because I was so disappointed by the whole Euros Holmes arc that I don't actually want to write anything that is Sherlock canon compliant anymore.

The premise of Between Lives is that Hermione is Sherlock's half-cousin. This is actually the case in Mary Potter as well, though it's not plot-important there. Kudos to anyone who caught the Easter egg of Emma's nephew 'Myc' sending a basket for Christmas 1993, rather than visiting because he was working. In the Mary Potter Series and most of my AUs, Hermione and Sherlock's parents have been estranged since 1983 over the institutionalization of Euros Holmes, and they met exactly once, when Hermione was three and Sherlock nine.

In Between Lives, Hermione over-uses her time turner, closing that age-gap slightly, and ends up living with Sherlock around 2002, after the end of the war, but well before the beginning of Sherlock Series 1. She learns that Euros is a powerful legilimens in 2017 (at the end of Series 4), helps recapture her, and ensures that she gets kissed by a dementor before she is returned to Sherrinford.

In The East Wind Rises, Emma won a particular argument with her elder half-brother back in 1983, resulting in the Grangers fostering Euros, rather than leaving her in an institution. Then Severus Snape got involved and, well… let's just say Voldemort might have a little bit of _competition_ come 1994.

This is probably one of the cringier stories I've started. It's up there with Fall Back, and I don't even have the excuse that this is my first fic ever. *shrugs* I keep writing it because I think it's an interesting point in Severus' life, and I want to see what he would do if he was essentially given full control and as much influence possible over young!fem!Tom (which is basically how Euros is portrayed in Sherlock canon).

Basically, I don't really like some of Euros' characterization, which seems to be somewhat overpowered to me, but I do think it's on point with how she was portrayed in Sherlock, and not entirely outside the realm of how Tom would have been at her age in canon, so I let it stand.

More importantly, at least to me, I _really_ don't like using psychological diagnoses explicitly in writing, because I'm not a psychologist or any sort of expert on the history of psychology, but I've done so here for reasons related to the adults in Euros' life having preconceived notions about her behavior and influencing her development and the way they interact with her.

Technically she would probably have been diagnosed with Conduct Disorder under the DSM III by actual professionals. The Holmes adults call her a psychopath due to their familiarity with the ASPD literature of the 1970s and early 1980s, and a propensity to equate adult-level intelligence with adult-level neurological development (which is simply not the case). Severus calls her a psychopath from a more lay-perspective, being less familiar with the terminology of muggle psychology (he's only twenty-five or so the first time they meet and hasn't seriously started studying mind-healing or psychology yet), but very familiar with the legilimentic presentation of a lack of empathy/emotion from his time with the Death Eaters. He distinguishes between inherent lack of emotion and the development of emotional responses that are not normal and labels them psychopathy and sociopathy respectively having picked up the terms and a vague connotation of them from the little abnormal psychology he has read over the course of his life. So far as I know, this is consistent with general use of the terms in the pre-1970s literature on the subject.

There are, of course, many other disorders that could result in a lack of emotional response in a child, and personally, I do think it would be too soon to stick her with any sort of diagnosis, but Severus doesn't know about them, and the Holmeses are making assumptions based on her apparent attempt to burn down the house, her role in the disappearance of Sherlock's best friend (though they don't know that she actually killed him), and her behavior while institutionalized.

So yeah, my use of psychology in this fic is juvenile and heavy-handed and in some cases just _wrong_ under current definitions and diagnosis protocols, and I know that, and I'm not entirely comfortable with it, but then, the way psychology is treated in Sherlock and Harry Potter could be similarly characterized, so I'm leaving it as it is. I don't plan for it to have a huge impact on the plot after characterization and inter-character relationship dynamics are established, but I felt it was important to include to establish where the various adults in the fic are coming from.


	25. EWR1: 1983 - Point of Departure

" _Fine!_ " Siger Holmes snapped at his much younger half-sister. "If you want her so badly, take her! But I warn you, Emma, no good will come of this!"

The blonde sneered at him, normally-warm blue eyes narrowed fiercely, curls trembling as she shook with suppressed fury. "As though some good _would_ come of leaving her in _that place_ ," she spat. She threw a folder onto the table between them. "Sign it!" she demanded.

He did, muttering the whole time about how this was bound to end in arson or worse. "Don't come crying to me when she finally snaps and murders Hermione in her sleep," he warned her, piling guilt atop fear with a hateful scowl.

Emma would not be moved. "Fuck you, Siger," she drawled, reclaiming the paperwork. "And the horse you rode in on."

"You can't teach a psychopath to feel, Emma." His tone was the most condescending she had heard in weeks, which was saying quite a lot, given his ego, his favored argumentative tactics, and the fact that this argument had been raging for those self-same weeks.

"False assumption, you patronizing shit," she snapped. "I'm not going to teach her to _feel_ , I'm going to teach her to _behave_."

Siger sneered far more magnificently than Emma could ever hope to do – she simply didn't have the nose for it. "Best of luck with that, sister."

She stalked from the room without dignifying his reply with a response, only to encounter her elder nephew in the doorway of the next room down the corridor, ostensibly reading a newspaper as he leaned against the frame.

"Mycroft," she greeted him, straightening her hair and clothing as she restrained her temper.

"Aunt Emma."

"I take it you overheard?"

"Much as I hate to agree with Father on… well, _anything_ ," he nodded, with an entirely false self-depreciating smile, "I can't help but think he's right, in this instance."

Emma reached up to pat his cheek: at eighteen, he was a full ten inches taller than she. "Don't worry, Myc. We both know Euros is the cleverest of us all, but she's still a child for all that. Now that we know where she's coming from… Well, in some ways, that makes parenting easier, I should think. Predictable."

"You're going to underestimate her."

His aunt smiled coldly. "Oh, I really won't." She let some warmth creep back into her expression as she added, "Besides, I'm looking forward to the challenge."

The young man sighed dramatically. "This whole bloody family is insane."

She laughed. "A bit. You just look after yourself and Sherlock, and let me take care of Euros. It'll be fine, Myc."

She was somewhat surprised to find herself engulfed in a quick hug, though much less so to hear him mutter, "I hope so. If you tell anyone about this, I will deny it."

"Your secret inclination toward spontaneous embraces is safe with me," she joked.

He let her go as if burned, toying with the paper he still held in his left hand. "Thank you," he said stiffly; she knew it wasn't just about his reputation. He had always tried to be a good big brother. She rather thought it was a shame fate had given him such challenging younger siblings, because it was a terribly thankless job.

She nodded. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a child to retrieve."

"Best of luck," he nodded back, his words echoing his father, though his tone was far more sincere. "Don't hesitate to call, if…"

"You're a sweetheart, Myc. But it's not your job to worry about me, or Euros."

"Or Hermione?" he inserted shrewdly.

"Or Hermione," she agreed. "I do have _some_ inkling as to what I'm doing, you know."

"I hope so," he muttered, so quietly she almost didn't hear it.

She let him have the last word as well, bidding him a silent farewell with another pat on the cheek.

…

Euros was a pretty child, wide eyed and innocent-looking, if one could get past the utterly blank expression she normally wore. She stood in the observation room at her facility and stared intently at the two-way glass separating her from Emma, as though she knew exactly where her aunt stood, despite the barrier.

"Are you certain about this, Mrs. Granger?" the psychologist beside her asked. "As you know, we have reason to believe that Miss Holmes is…"

"A psychopath? A danger to herself and others? Incapable of true remorse or reform? Using me? Mocking this institution and the entire discipline of psychology by telling you exactly what you want to hear?" Emma raised an unimpressed eyebrow at the man, who looked to be about Siger's age – twenty years or so her elder.

He flushed. "Well, that is, um…"

"Save it, doctor," she advised him. "Your analysis is invalidated not only by the fact that she is a child, but also by the fact that it is based largely in part on an absence of evidence. You took the fact that she responded to my advice to be indicative of her manipulative tendencies, rather than an indication that she is indeed capable of behaving as a more or less normal child of her age."

"What did you _tell_ her?" the doctor asked, his tone verging on petulance.

Emma smirked. "That if she could prove to me that she is capable of behaving like a human, I would get her out of here."

"Like a _human_?"

Emma laughed. "Yes, _human,_ as opposed to an untamed animal throwing tantrums as she was, or that 'in this world but not of it' thing she does so well."

The psychologist frowned. "Mrs. Granger, I really don't think –"

"If you're about to tell me off for othering her, don't bother. I'm not the one who decided she wasn't human; she is. Humans, in her eyes, are infinitely slow, crawling insects. Goldfish at best. Her mere existence in comparison to the idiots who surround her is othering. But she was not sentenced here by the courts, only her father, and I have his permission to take her away as your methods have proven to be ineffectual at best, so you _will_ release her into my care. _Now_." She held his gaze with a cold stare, the hint of a challenge lurking around the promise to crush _him_ like one of the aforementioned 'infinitely slow, crawling insects' if he denied her.

On the other side of the glass, Euros smiled.

The man blustered for several minutes more, but the paperwork was undeniable. He had to allow the child to leave, for all his misgivings about her and the woman who was, apparently, now her legal guardian.

…

"Ground rules, Emily Elizabeth," Emma said directly as she entered the observation room. The child did not respond, still making faces at the mirror, but her aunt knew she was listening. She could hardly help but be aware of everything around her, and seemed to forget nothing. "You will not harm Hermione, Dan, me, or yourself. I will define what constitutes harm and ensure that you are informed of these definitions and why I consider them harmful. You will make an effort to act human at all times. I will help you understand how and why humans act as they do. And you will ask for and receive my permission before doing anything that may result in the death of a human or animal, or property damage in excess of twenty pounds. These rules are non-negotiable, and if I find you have deliberately violated them, I will have you returned to an institution such as this one. If you comply, you will be rewarded with greater freedom from supervision and access to other people."

For the first time since Emma had entered the room, Euros deigned to look at her. "Sherlock?"

"Perhaps, in time."

"Hermione?"

"Not as a reward: you will be living with her, so I could hardly keep you apart."

"What probability of death or property damage?"

Emma hid a smirk, knowing she had won. "If an activity has a greater than one percent probability of death _and/or_ a five percent probability of property damage, I expect to be consulted."

The little girl smiled and walked around the table, throwing her arms around her aunt. "I'm so glad you came to get me. Can we leave, now?"

Emma correctly interpreted this reaction as an acceptance of her rules: when left to her own devices, Euros was less inclined to hugging than Mycroft. "Very good," she murmured, returning the embrace. "And yes, let's do," she added for the benefit of the psychologist on the other side of the glass.

A moment later, the door opened from the outside. Euros examined the doubtful-looking man for a moment before asking, "Aunt Emma, why didn't you tell Dr. Fawcett that you're a doctor, too?"

She giggled at his consternation, though Emma agreed that it was quite evident in his expression and bearing that considered himself superior to her due to his expertise and education.

"Because, Euros, sometimes it is to one's advantage to be underestimated. And besides, putting him in his place would not have endeared me to him, nor would it have aided in securing your release. Shall we?"

The girl took her hand and skipped out of the room. "I'm going to get my clothes, and then we're going to the car," she narrated. Emma presumed she meant to say, 'Let me just grab my things, and then we can leave.' Self-explanatory phrases did not come naturally to the girl, who considered her actions easily interpreted in most cases.

 _Still_ , she thought, _it's a start_.


	26. EWR2: 1983-1985 - Magic

Living with Emma was somewhat restrictive, Euros found, but far less so than living at the institution, and her aunt was as good as her word, allowing her more privacy and less direct supervision as soon as she proved she could control herself in public and around Hermione. Not that she would have tried to play the same sort of games with Hermione as she did with Sherlock, anyway. Not only was Hermione too little, but getting her attention was not a challenge in the least; she practically begged her mother to let them sleep in the same room, and spent all her time following Euros around like a misplaced duckling.

They spent much of their time with Emma, who had taken it upon herself to homeschool Euros. This involved more lessons on why people acted the way they did and what they were thinking and how Emma could tell than any sort of standard maths or literature or science curriculum (which was perfectly acceptable to Euros, because she had long since surpassed her peers academically). They visited cafes, parks, and libraries in search of people for watching, Euros cataloguing their behaviors as Emma corrected her own, and Hermione explored ahead of them, apparently oblivious to their discussion. In the evenings, Emma let her read the adult books that lined the shelves in the den – the sort that her father had forbidden after Mycroft had explained to him her ill-conceived attempt to examine her own musculature. She still had the scar, and she knew that Emma knew about that, too, because she had revised the first rule to include such experiments under the definition of 'harm'.

Dan did not like Euros. He did not like the fact that Emma had taken a leave of absence from their young dental practice in order to stay home and supervise her, leaving him the sole breadwinner in the family. He did not like the Uncanny Valley effect of interacting with her enough to catch the flaws in her human façade, he did not like her obsession with Hermione, and he especially did not like the way Hermione idolized her new big sister.

Euros was aware of this, but she did not particularly care, and as his disliking her did not fall under any of Emma's definitions of harm, she saw no reason to attempt to change the situation.

Emma apparently did, because after three months, she decreed that the girls would be going to daycare three days a week, while she returned to work. This was, she said, not only a _compromise_ with Dan (Emma was a big proponent of the idea of _compromise_ ), but also a reward for Euros, to be essentially unsupervised those three days a week. There was, of course, an adult present, but she was just a normal human, so for all intents and purposes, Euros could get away with murder during daycare, if she wanted.

She didn't, really. She was perfectly content to spend most of her unsupervised hours attempting to teach the three-year-old Hermione how to see things like she did, rather than like a dull, slow human, or observing her reactions to stimuli in an effort to understand how and why she reacted.

Children were, in many ways, simpler than adults, Euros knew, but in many ways more foreign to her, because they often acted without any reason she could see. Emma insisted these responses were emotionally motivated, but that wasn't any great help to Euros, because she seemed to be lacking any such motivation herself from which to interpret them. So she fell back on pattern recognition, which required many, many hours of observation.

And in the course of that observation, she had discovered that there was something _strange_ about Hermione. Not in the way that she was disappointingly and resolutely human-like in her ability to think and speak (though Euros would admit that in comparison to the other larval humans at daycare, Hermione was rather advanced, and she hoped that this meant her little cousin would grow up to be more like Emma and Mycroft and Sherlock, i.e., tolerable company, rather than one of _them_ ). That was, unfortunately, all too common.

The _strangeness_ manifested mostly in the laws of physics as she understood them occasionally taking a short break around the younger girl, allowing books and toys to appear at her side when Euros was certain they had been placed on too-high shelves only moments before, and the lights flickering as Hermione was agitated by a storm, and, on the occasion which convinced Euros that she had not simply missed observing an action or confounding variable, an inexplicable glow surrounding herself.

The incident occurred on the twenty-third of August, 1983, just after Euros' ninth birthday, and shortly before Hermione's fourth. Euros had been living with the Grangers for four and a half months, and it was a Tuesday, a home day. Emma was writing in the den, and Euros was reading Tolkien to Hermione. The younger girl curled up beside her in bed and followed along – she was learning to read longer stories herself – until she suddenly looked up at Euros' face, excitement etched across her own.

"Hey, Euros?"

"Yes, Hermione?"

"Get up, I want to do something."

"What?"

"You'll _see_. I had an _idea_."

"What kind of idea?"

"I'm Glorfindel and you're Frodo. Get _up_."

Euros humored her, though she had to say, "If either one of us is a hobbit, it's you. You're shorter, and I'm much more elf-like."

Hermione shook her bushy head. "Nuh _uh._ I have _fëa._ That makes me an elf!"

Euros started to explain that humans didn't really have magic, and the book was only a story, but she trailed off as she noticed a glow emanating from the hand Hermione was holding in both of hers. It crept slowly up Euros' arm, warm and not unpleasant. It made her chest feel slightly tight. She stared at her cousin, for once shocked beyond all reason. "What?" she asked blankly, examining her free hand, which was by now glowing as well, and the expression of concentration on the younger girl's face.

She could hardly avoid the conclusion that one was connected to the other, especially since the glow faded as soon as Hermione let go of her hand.

She panted, as though she had just done something very strenuous, but looked highly pleased with herself. "Did it work?"

Before Euros could ask what was supposed to have happened, three adults appeared in their bedroom, displacing the air with a series of loud cracking sounds.

Hermione screamed and attempted to both hide behind Euros and wrap herself around her at the same time, causing both of them to lose their balance, and Euros to fall on top of Hermione.

By the time Emma appeared in the doorway, approximately seventeen seconds after the first _crack_ , Hermione was crying, the three strangers were pointing sticks at the girls, and Euros was trying to get up without further crushing her cousin.

"It was an accident!" she said quickly, on seeing her aunt's disapproving face.

"Of course it was," one of the strangers said, in a tone Euros recognized as sarcasm.

"Blake!" another snapped.

"Who the fuck are you, and how did you get into my house?" Emma asked, glaring at them.

Euros thought the more important questions were, 'Where had Aunt Emma gotten a handgun, and how had she retrieved it so quickly on the way to the bedroom?' but she knew better than to ask. One of the very first lessons Emma had taught her was that she shouldn't draw attention to questionably legal possessions and activities. Besides, she rather thought the strangers deserved to be threatened, appearing so rudely as they had.

They weren't much better at acting threatened than Euros was, though. Two of them looked confused. The third pointed his stick at Emma and a bolt of red light flashed across the room, somewhat slower than light normally travelled, since Euros could follow it with her eyes, but quickly enough that Emma could not quite avoid it, and she fell to the ground, apparently unconscious. A second bolt of light formed a blue bubble around the dropped pistol.

"Malcom! What did you do that for?" Sarcastic Blake asked, now sounding more startled than sarcastic.

"She had a gun!"

"What?"

"A – a gun. You know, a firearm?"

"Oh, those muggle piercing hex machines? I thought they were, you know… longer."

"For the love of – _no_ , you idiot. They come in different varieties. Shotguns are more like… blasting hexes. With shrapnel."

"Like the Dark variation on –"

"Merlin's beard, will you two shut up?!" the last intruder finally spoke. She must have been in charge, because the two men did.

"My aunt's questions still stand," Euros pointed out calmly, now on her feet, with Hermione whimpering behind her. Euros could feel the younger girl trembling as she pressed herself to her back, but she suspected that she would be forgiven for not cowering in fear, given the extenuating circumstances. "You appeared out of nowhere. You _displaced air_. How? And why? Who are you?"

The woman in charge sighed. "My name is Florence Brightnel. These gentlemen are Malcom Westin and Blake Morris. We are with the Ministry of Magic; Accidental Magic Reversal Squad Three." She flashed a glowing purple badge momentarily. "Our sensors detected an uncontrolled discharge of magical energy from this location. You're not on the muggleborn register, so the department sent us to investigate."

"Magic," Euros repeated flatly.

Hermione made a little _eep_ sound.

"You must have noticed _something_ ," Sarcastic Blake said. "That degree of power doesn't just do _nothing_."

"I think your sensors must have made a mistake," Euros lied. Why, she could not have said, exactly, aside from a vague disinclination to allow them to know that her little cousin was undoubtedly the source of the disturbance. What if they took her away, like Euros had been taken away from the Manor?

The end of the stick in Malcom's hand glowed red. "Don't try to lie to us, girl," he said sharply. "What did you do?"

" _Nothing_ ," Euros said, perfectly truthfully. The light glowed green.

The three strangers whispered amongst themselves for a moment, flashing darting looks at Hermione, her curly head peeking out from behind Euros' back.

It was Florence who approached them when the conference was concluded, kneeling so as to be more of a height with them and speaking in the slightly babyish, mollifying voice of one who thinks they are really good with children. It was uncannily similar to the daycare supervisor. "Okay, sweethearts, we need to know what happened here, and then we'll go and you can forget all about us. We'll start with something easy: What are your names?"

Euros didn't answer, refusing on principle to acknowledge any such patronizing tone.

"Come on, loves. You already know mine. Florence, remember? You can call me Flo…"

Euros started to say that if 'Flo' wanted to foster reciprocation, she could begin by explaining how she and her colleagues had entered the house, but before she could, Hermione, less wise to the ways of adults, caved. "I'm 'Mione," she mumbled, still hiding behind Euros. "This's my cousin Euros."

The men exchanged a look Euros was certain held some significance at the mention of her name.

"Very _good_ ," 'Flo' cooed. "It's very nice to meet you, Mione, Euros."

"Only the people I _like_ are allowed to call me Euros," she noted. "My name is Emily."

The men relaxed. _Why?_

"Emily, then," 'Flo' agreed. "Could one of you please tell me what happened just before we arrived?"

Hermione, coaxed out by the praise and soft voice, opened her mouth again, but Euros quickly covered it with a hand, ignoring the smaller girl's squirming and the uncomfortable wetness of tongue against palm. "Not until _you_ tell _us_ how you got here in the first place!"

'Flo' looked displeased, and Sarcastic Blake drawled, " _Magic_ , obviously."

Malcom glared at him. "It's called _apparition_ ," he explained. "It's kind of like teleportation."

Hermione stomped on Euros' foot, so she decided this explanation was sufficient, despite the complete lack of specifics and removed her hand.

"I was just trying to make Euros happy!" the younger girl explained, glaring at her cousin.

"Why?" Euros had to ask.

"B'cause! Reasons!"

Sarcastic Blake snorted. Malcom elbowed him. Before Euros could probe for more specifics regarding this urge to try to make her happy, 'Flo' sighed.

"Emily, we're going to need to perform a few tests, to ensure that your cousin did not hurt you and remove any remnants of the spell."

Euros was very familiar with _tests_ after her time in _that place_. "I'm fine," she said coldly. "Nothing happened." Malcom cleared his throat. The light was glowing red again. It made Euros want to scream. "Don't touch me," she glared at the woman. "I don't want your _tests_."

"Don't be ridiculous," 'Flo' said, pointing her stick at Euros. "You won't feel a thing."

"She never feels anything," Hermione volunteered. "That's the _problem_."

Euros covered her mouth again, and received a kick in the knee for her trouble. While she was distracted, the woman produced a web of light that settled over her like snow, its touch slight, but _definitely_ present, like a mist-net wrapping around her securely. Euros shuddered, unable to even imagine what it might be doing, and made a grab for the stick. 'Flo' jerked back, and the trapped feeling of the light-web vanished.

"A short lived _beneficia_ approximation of a cheering charm," she announced to her companions. "No harm done, and it's entirely dissipated."

"Got lucky, then," Malcom noted. "Obliviations all around?"

'Flo' nodded. "I'll do Miss Mione if you want to take care of Miss Emily, Blake."

Malcom was already _levitating_ Emma out of the room. _How?_ 'Magic' wasn't a sufficient answer.

"Sure. Might as well have _some_ reason to've been dragged all the way out here," Sarcastic Blake said.

"Careful," 'Flo' warned him. "She might fight you."

"She's a _muggle_ ," he drawled. "What do you take me for?"

"A sarcastic, overconfident jerk?" Euros suggested.

'Flo' laughed, but Sarcastic Blake glared and pointed his stick at her with a flourish. " _Obliviate_ ," he intoned.

All at once she felt the same energy that had settled over her before sinking into her, clawing its way into her memories, making the past few minutes grow fuzzy as it went. She struck back at it on instinct, as though its tendrils were fingers to be broken, _knowing_ , somehow, that she did not want it to succeed in whatever it intended. She _could not_ let it achieve a hold in her mind, and she _would not_. By the time it retreated, she was breathing hard, heart racing, as though she had been running, not frozen in place under attack by some sort of hostile magic.

Sarcastic Blake looked confused, and not a little angry. She charged, intending to take away the stick that seemed to be so fundamental to the magic, but ropes exploded from nowhere with a _crack_ , tangling her limbs and sending her crashing to the floor. She heard Hermione shouting her name distantly as the man's features filled her entire range of vision, looming over her. His brown eyes glistened strangely as they peered into her own light blue.

" _Legilimens_ ," he hissed.

This attack was stronger and more direct than the last, like an ice pick to the frontal lobe, an intrusion into her thoughts and her very _being_. It was foreign. She could not stand it. If she could have, she would have screamed, but all of her focus was on her mind, not her body. Instead she pummeled the invasive presence with every foul memory she could think of, caging it as she had been caged in the institution and _wailing_ at it until she sensed it had begun to try to flee, rather than proceed. She opened doorways, leading _out,_ letting it go, chasing it and beating at it as it went. As it left her, a rush of _something_ did as well. (How she _hated_ not having the proper words!) Power? Some magic of her own?

She opened her eyes, unaware that she had closed them, to see her attacker on the other side of the room, holding his head as though it hurt every bit as much as her own. The ropes were gone. She rolled over onto her side and vomited, which did absolutely nothing to lessen her migraine.

"Blake?" 'Flo' said, looking around from whatever she was doing to Hermione, who stared blankly, as though in a trance. Her voice _hurt_ , like an augmented fourth where one expected a perfect fifth, too high and too loud, too.

"Okay, not a muggle," he grumbled, that sound no better. Euros clutched at her ears, but she could still hear him say, "And no untrained child should be that good an occlumens," before sending a red light at her. She had just enough time to realize that it was the same shade as the one that had knocked out Emma before it overwhelmed her as well.

…

When Euros woke, there was a hole in her memories. She could feel it there, an unnatural patch of time during which she could not remember what she had been doing, with none of the usual sensations of having gone to sleep beforehand. She was lying in bed, with Hermione curled up at her side. The context suggested that they had both fallen asleep during the scene where Glorfindel tried to heal Frodo, but she had marked the page as she always did, and she did not recall having read the pages leading up to it. It was unsettling.

She let Hermione continue to sleep, and slipped out to the den, where Emma was working on an article for a dental journal.

"Hello, Euros," Emma greeted her, looking up from her computer with a start. "Are you alright?"

"I… don't know," Euros admitted. "I… maybe?" This response garnered concern. "I just woke up, but I don't remember falling asleep."

Emma smiled reassuringly. "I wouldn't worry about it overly much. Let me know if it happens again, though, okay?"

She nodded and proceeded into the kitchen to get a glass of water. _Very unsettling indeed_ , she revised, as she realized it was nearly four o'clock, rather than the two-thirty or so she had expected.

…

It was not until several days later, when they returned to the Lord of the Rings, that she recalled exactly what had happened in that time she could not remember.

She began reading where her marker lay, only to be immediately corrected. "You _missed_ something, Euros," Hermione whined. "The Nazgûls were attacking, remember? Back _here_." She flipped to the previous chapter.

"The plural of Nazgûl is Nazgûl," Euros corrected absently. "Like moose," but she began reading without complaint, trying to decide whether it was more or less disconcerting to know that her cousin was apparently missing the same chunk of time as herself.

She had not reached a conclusion half an hour later, when they reached the scene where they had apparently been interrupted.

An undeniable sense of déjà vu struck as Hermione said, "Hey, Euros?"

"Yes, Hermione?"

"Get up, I want to do something."

Euros stood, trying to determine what, exactly was going on, here, and why she felt as though she had done this before.

Hermione grinned, taking her cousin's left hand in both of hers. A soft, warm glow ignited at the places their skin touched and began to creep up Euros' wrist. _Magic_.

Euros snatched her hand away as the memories flooded back, inducing a headache nearly as crippling as the one that followed her mental battle with Sarcastic Blake.

"Euros? What's wrong?!" Hermione exclaimed, obviously concerned that she was at fault for her cousin's sudden reaction. Which, Euros supposed, she was, in a way, though not nearly so much as Accidental Magic Reversal Team Three.

"Hermione," she said uncertainly. "What would you say if I told you used magic on me on Tuesday?"

"Um…"

"We read this same passage, and you wanted to try to make me happy – God knows why, as I'm perfectly content the way I am – and you cast a spell on me that alerted the Ministry of Magic and they sent a team of… of magicians or mages, or whatever they're called, to find out what happened, and make us forget all about it?"

"Are you okay?"

"Oh, yes, I'm fine, now, but you're not. Listen. Do you remember me taking my bookmark out of the book earlier, before you said we were in the wrong chapter?"

Hermione nodded.

"Do you remember me putting it _in_ the book on Tuesday?"

"I was asleep," Hermione said. "I thought you read ahead."

"I wouldn't read fiction without you," Euros pointed out. "Do you remember falling asleep? Being tired? Do you remember getting in bed? You were playing with the Legos when I started reading on Tuesday."

Hermione was starting to look scared. She shook her head. "No. Just the story, where I said, and… you're right. I wasn't in bed. How did I get there, Euros?"

So Euros explained what she now recalled, in every detail she thought potentially relevant. The telling took nearly twice as long as the experience. By the end of the recounting, Hermione was obviously torn between anger and curiosity.

"Do you think I can do other things?" she asked.

Euros smirked. "June fourth, your stuffed bear appeared at your side less than a minute after I saw it on the top shelf; you were in exactly the same spot, and nothing else had been moved. June tenth, we spent half an hour looking for the Hobbit before you found it sitting on the bed, in plain sight, where I had already looked. June twenty-seventh, Masie Thompson's shoelaces tied themselves together after she was making fun of the way we talk. July second, we had that big thunderstorm, and all the lights kept flickering."

"That could be a coincidence," Hermione argued.

"I would have thought so too, except the same thing happened on the fourth at daycare, too, and I don't think both this house and that building have the same faulty wiring. Whatever it was, it didn't affect the neighbors so it wasn't a grid surge. July eighteenth, Justin Pinkerton's remote controlled car died after he called you a freak."

"I thought that was you," Hermione flushed.

"No, I told Jeff Thompson that Justin called Maisie a bad name, so Jeff shoved sand down his pants when they let us go outside. July twentieth –"

"Okay," Hermione interrupted. "You can stop."

Euros grinned. "Now, granted, some of those things probably were coincidence. But not all of them. Not given that there is clearly magic at work, too."

"Oh. So what do we do now that we know?" the younger girl asked, staring at her hands warily.

Her cousin's grin grew wider. " _Experiments_."

…

The girls' experiments started small, with exercises in levitation and mind-reading, inspired by stories of psionic powers. Euros was unsurprised to find that Hermione was by far the quicker of the two of them when it came to mastering the former: it seemed strong emotions were the key to successfully making an object fly. She, however, was always correct when it came to guessing which card her cousin had drawn, or replicating a figure as she drew in the next room, where Hermione could not seem to master any sort of clairvoyance at all.

They quickly escalated to making the lights flicker intentionally and (after attaining permission from Emma to light a candle), pyrokinesis. Euros was able to manage the task after staring at it for several minutes, envisioning the very molecules and atoms of the wick vibrating faster and faster, until they burst into flame. Hermione melted half of it by glaring angrily, pointing dramatically, and shouting _'Fotia!'_

(Hermione had decided after a debate which was, in Euros' opinion, rather silly, that Greek was appropriate as a magical language, because both of their names were Greek in origin. Euros had been the one to acquire a Greek dictionary, in the hopes that her baby cousin could be induced to learn the language properly, along with Latin and French and Russian, but despite her best efforts, Hermione still clearly had no inclination to do so.)

The latter approach resulted in the second visit from the Ministry of Magic, nearly eight months after the first, though not by the same team they had already encountered. The leader of Team One, a tall black man called Clarence who positively radiated sincerity, agreed that there was no point trying to take the girls' memories again, because they would inevitably re-discover their magic and resume their experiments. He explained the Statute of Secrecy and the need to keep magic from muggles, which the girls had already been doing (because Euros was ever-mindful of Emma's advice to let people underestimate oneself, and Hermione liked having secrets as much as any four-year-old). The team had departed with an air of satisfaction, probably under the impression that the girls would be good and not play with magic anymore in the future. Euros had, after all, very carefully given them that impression, though she had no intention of changing her behavior whatsoever, save keeping their exploits beneath the threshold of power which apparently alerted the Ministry's sensors.

She was successful for just over three months, which was when Hermione began reading The Sword in the Stone, with frequent interjections, corrections of pronunciation, and asides from Euros, who found fiction doubly boring when she wasn't even the one reading it. Perhaps due to the constant interruptions, the younger girl quickly decided that they should try turning one thing into another. Not one of them into a badger or hawk, like the book, because they had agreed to start small with their experiments, but, for example, a mouse into a chipmunk.

Convincing animals to trust her was almost as easy for Euros as snatching images out of Hermione's mind, though she had not experimented with it much after she had summoned a handful of birds to herself in the park and Hermione started calling her Princess Emily. A mouse was soon acquired and made to sit in the center of the room while Hermione looked doubtfully between it and the book on mammalian anatomy that Euros had been reading between her asides on Arthur and Merlin, and Euros looked for a good 'magic word' in the Greek dictionary.

"Can you do it?" the younger girl asked hesitantly.

"It was _your_ idea," Euros pointed out. "Why don't you want to do it?"

"What if I only turn it half-way and it dies?"

Euros considered for a moment. Regardless of the actual likelihood of that outcome, it wasn't as though Emma would find out about this, since neither she nor Hermione would tell her about anything to do with magic, so the _effective_ probability of this resulting in a death that _counted_ was zero. She shrugged. "I'll teach you how to dissect it, and we can see what parts changed first." Actually, she kind of hoped it _did_ die, because that sounded like an interesting afternoon, and there was no rule against dissecting something that was already dead. "Now, the word is _metavállo_ ; to transform into."

Hermione blinked at the mouse. The mouse blinked back, sitting obediently where Euros had left it. Hermione frowned, and there was a feeling that Euros now recognized as magic gathering in the air. It felt not unlike the atmosphere growing charged before a lightning strike.

The girl reached out a slightly-trembling finger and laid it on the mouse's head. " _Metavállo!_ " she whispered. The magic in the air rushed through her and into the mouse, which promptly exploded with a small pop.

Hermione, covered in atomized mouse, burst into tears even before Team One appeared with a crack. Euros laughed. She couldn't help it. Watching Hermione try so hard to be careful and thorough, only to have it backfire so _dramatically_ was the funniest thing she had seen since watching Sherlock try to find his little pet.

Everyone else was less amused. Juniper went to ensure that the elder Grangers registered no hint of anything amiss, while Maggie removed all traces of the mouse from the room and Hermione. She took her time, examining the books that they had left out and the spatter-patterns as she did so, then conferred with Clarence, who was soothing the still-sobbing Hermione. At a guess, Hermione was explaining what they had tried to do, because Clarence didn't look at all pleased.

It was Maggie who led Euros out of the room and sat her down on the sofa, taking the chair opposite for herself. Euros deduced that Juniper must have interrupted Emma and Dan in their bedroom.

"Okay," Maggie said, without preamble. "Here's the deal, Emily: I know we phrased it like a suggestion last time, but what we meant was _you need to stop playing around with magic_. Hopefully this little demonstration has shown you why: it's unstable, and dangerous for you to mess around with without adult supervision. It's even _more_ dangerous for you to push Hermione into trying things she's not ready for. She's _four_! Unguided transfiguration is exponentially more dangerous than unguided charms. What do you think would have happened if she had tried that on you, or herself? There's a reason we don't tell muggleborn children about magic before they're old enough for school, damn it!"

The important part of that tirade, Euros thought, was the mention of a school, and the idea that this experiment was somehow fundamentally different from those they had attempted before – transfiguration rather than charms. "School?" she repeated curiously.

"Hogwarts," the witch scowled. "They're supposed to send the Deputy Head to talk to prospective boarders the summer after you turn eleven, and explain your options, then."

Euros would be eleven in one year, two months and seventeen days. "If I turn eleven in August, does that mean the same summer, or the one after summer?"

Maggie rolled her eyes. "The same. Probably the last week of July. And don't think you can change the subject, missy!"

"Miss Price," Euros said, in her best imitation of Emma's most patronizing tone, "You seem to be under the impression that this experiment was _my_ idea."

"Are you telling me that a _four year old_ just thought she would try wandless animate to animate transfiguration on a whim?"

"No, I'm telling you we were reading a muggle story book about Merlin and she decided she wanted to try changing one animal into another, and I didn't see the harm in it."

"You _didn't see the harm_ -?! Bloody hell, McGonagall would kill me… look. Transfiguration, the art of changing one thing into another, is some of the most unstable and dangerous magic that is routinely taught in Magical Britain. You can't just try to brute force one shape into another – an explosion like the one you saw today is the _best_ possible outcome – I've seen backlash kill the caster, and other cases twist them irreversibly into still-living mockeries of themselves. I really don't know which is worse. It's not at all the sort of thing you should be encouraging a child to play with, muggle fae tales or no."

Euros glared. "Well, I would have _known_ that if you lot would actually _tell_ us anything, instead of just appearing and vanishing mysteriously as you please!"

"We told you to knock it off!"

"No, you told us, and I quote, 'Don't play with fire, kids, it can be dangerous.' And so we _stopped playing with fire_."

"Magic! Magic is the fire!"

Euros rolled her eyes and crossed her arms in an overt show of stubbornness. "Given that we were practicing pyrokinesis, your words were ambiguous."

Juniper sniggered from the doorway. "She's got you there, Mags. Slytherin for sure, this one."

"Damn it, June!" Maggie snapped, blushing.

"Slytherin?" Euros asked.

Juniper shook her head. "Can't say. We're not supposed to let you know we were even here, let alone tell you about the rest of the magical world. Wait until the Hogwarts letters show up. Their representative will answer all your questions."

Euros made a point of pouting at her. "Fine. If we're done here?" she asked Maggie pointedly.

The witch nodded with an expression of… rueful resignation, Euros thought that one was. A kind of 'I don't want to say yes, but I know I have no choice' face. She nodded back, and stalked back to the bedroom she shared with Hermione.

Her baby cousin was far more shaken by the whole exploding mouse experience than Euros really thought necessary, and as she admitted after the adults had left, had been given a similar talk on the dangers of what they were doing. She refused to continue their experiments for nearly six months, leaving Euros to practice on her own. This worked out relatively well, as no adults apparated in to yell at _her_ for her lack of control.

When Hermione did finally rejoin her in exploring their powers, it was in the wake of an indoor snow storm caused by her demands for a white Christmas. This was doubly unpleasant because it left their beds cold and wet, and because it had Maggie lecturing Euros again, this time about restricted arts, of which weatherworking was apparently one.

This did not stop Euros from creating increasingly complex thunderstorms and tornados in plastic bottles over the course of the six months that remained until her expected invitation to Hogwarts arrived, nor did the lecture that followed Hermione's exploration of gardening prevent her from learning how to cause plants to grow and wither on command.

The only AMRS call that was actually _Euros'_ fault was the one where she accidentally _compelled_ Justin Pinkerton to go play in traffic instead of bothering her cousin. He was lucky Hermione managed to make the first car hop over him, because there was no way it could have stopped in time. Euros was of the opinion she should have just let it hit him, because the AMRS only erased the jumping car from the witnesses' memories, and his telling everyone that she was the one who had made him walk out into the road did _nothing_ to improve the odd cousins' reputation at the daycare. (Thankfully, Emma hadn't believed that Euros had _made_ the kid do anything, even if she did reprimand her niece for telling anyone to bugger off so rudely.)

All in all, Euros thought the two years and three months between her arrival at the Grangers' and her invitation to Hogwarts passed rather pleasantly. She learned how to pass as a typical Holmes, if not a proper human. She practiced magic and the violin and half a dozen languages (which she eventually bullied Hermione into learning as well). She read every medical and philosophy book in the house before moving on to the public library and a more eclectic range of topics most accurately characterized as 'non-fiction with eye-catching covers,' not to mention a vast collection of fantasy and science fiction novels which she considered magical research, and Hermione considered the epitome of entertainment.

Violet and William (Euros' ex-step-mother and her husband) came to visit on major holidays, and Mycroft came checked in whenever his work brought him to Maidstone. On one very memorable occasion, the girls visited the manor, where Euros was shocked to find that Sherlock did not appear to recognize her at all. She couldn't tell whether he had been obliviated somehow, or was simply repressing everything to do with her after losing their little game, and something was missing from the way he looked at her, now. She spent the entire day with Hermione (who was by far a superior companion anyway, given their shared secret of magic), refusing to acknowledge him right back as Emma and Siger sniped at each other over tea cakes. Mycroft begged off with the excuse of work, the lucky bastard. There was a reason the visit was never replicated, and Euros refused to believe it was entirely her fault.

Dan and Emma slowly repaired their relationship, though Dan never did reconcile himself entirely to the presence of his niece in his house. They were, at best, civil to each other, but that seemed to be good enough for Emma, so it was good enough for Euros. Hermione continued to follow Euros around like a lost duckling, albeit a duckling that could make an eight-meter oak tree appear in their garden at a whim, and Euros slowly developed an insatiable urge to find out what happened next in her life: content as she was with the Grangers, she couldn't _wait_ to go to Hogwarts and learn all about Magical Britain as well.


	27. EWR3: 1985 - Serendipity

Severus Snape was not in a good state of mind for dealing with children when the Headmaster informed him that he would be required to visit this year's sole muggleborn, due to Minerva having a hairball or a transfiguration "emergency" or otherwise being indisposed (he hadn't quite gotten an explanation, and had decided it wasn't worth pursuing) and Severus being Dumbledore's go-to bitch (not in so many words, of course).

He really shouldn't have been out of bed.

He had a migraine, was emotionally exhausted, and thanks to an acute case of Lemnum Lethaeo withdrawal, had not slept for more than six collective hours in the past three days. He had spent the previous thirty-six hours hallucinating under a fever induced by the withdrawal from a cocktail of potions he had been using to manage the 'dreamless' sleep potion's side-effects, and had been subsisting largely on caffeine and sugar for that same period, due to an unfortunate tendency to retch up anything solid that he managed to choke down.

He had certainly worked under worse conditions of torture and deprivation when Bellatrix was at the peak of her paranoia against him, but there was a difference between 'functional enough to brew under pain of death' and 'capable of social niceties.'

He was beginning to re-think this whole 'coming to terms with grief and self-destructive habits' _thing_ , sparked by his finally reading Lily's journals the week before, but he had also thrown his stock of the addictive sleeping potion into the lake in a fit of decisiveness on Wednesday last. By the time he finished another batch, he would be through the worst of his symptoms. He hoped.

Dark Powers help him, the first thing he had thought when Dumbledore summoned him and explained the situation was, 'Fuck if I don't wish we had got that one, too,' because if the Death Eaters had managed to kill this particular muggleborn along with her peers, he would have been allowed to hide in the dungeons all day, rather than venturing out into the obnoxiously bright sunlight and attempting to hold down his coffee while explaining the existence of the magical world to a muggleborn twit and her undoubtedly hopelessly muggle family. Well, probably. With his luck, Dumbledore would have found some other chore for him to accomplish outside. But still! Who sends a former Death Eater as an envoy to a muggle family?

If his recent history with muggles was not enough, the fact that he had called the Headmaster a fucking lunatic on receiving his assignment should have exempted him from the job. He could not think of anyone else at the school who was _less_ likely to give a poor first impression of the magical world at the moment, including the mad old coot himself. But he had insisted, and Severus was obligated to follow his orders.

Unable to avoid it, he reported, as ordered, to the house in Kent, apparating under a notice-me-not charm to a perfectly muggle neighborhood, though thankfully not one of the cookie cutter ones that practically begged to be cleansed from the Earth with fiendfire. It was, he thought, an older, upper-middle-class area – the sort of place where professionals and their wives lived: doctors or lawyers, maybe. The front lawn of the house he had been directed to was slightly too long, and there was a single clean, well-kept car parked in the open garage, another clearly missing. The garage itself was tidily organized: shelves filled with neatly labeled plastic bins and cardboard boxes lined the back wall.

Severus felt rather out of place. His own experience of muggles – apart from Death Eater raids – was based in a much lower-class childhood. If he had been able to summon the mental energy, he might have cared.

He straightened the cuffs of the exceedingly plain, dark suit he had transfigured from one of his teaching robes and his memory of what the well-dressed men used to wear back when he still associated with muggles on a regular basis. Thankfully, muggle men's styles didn't change all that much over the course of a decade or so. He had done nothing to hide the bags under his eyes, but his face and hair were clean, and in his mind, that was more than Dumbledore had any right to ask of him on this particular Saturday, especially before noon.

With no viable excuse to prolong his hesitation (and mindful of the fact that the sooner this was done, the sooner he could go hide in the dungeons again), he strode briskly up the path to the front door and knocked impatiently, or tried to. A dark-haired child with wide, blue eyes and a carefully pleasant expression opened it before he managed the second rap. She appeared to be approximately the correct size for a first-year. The speed with which the door was opened was the only hint of her interest in his presence. A much smaller, curly-haired brunette peeked out from behind her, far more visibly excited.

"Miss Emily Holmes?" he verified tiredly.

She nodded. "Are you the Hogwarts representative? You don't look old enough to be the Deputy Head. Or sober enough." He glared at her. Her pleasant expression did not even twitch. "Sorry, was that rude? Um. Come in. _Aunt Emma_!" she shouted, stepping back to allow him entrance and taking the smaller girl (Sister? Cousin?) with her. He winced at the volume. " _I'm letting a stranger into the house!"_

"Surely there is a better way to have phrased that," Severus muttered.

"Mum doesn't know about wizards," the younger girl explained, confirming the cousin theory and leading the way into a sitting room.

"And yet you do," Severus noted drily.

The one he had come to inform of her invitation to Hogwarts explained, "For people ostensibly charged with enforcing the laws of Magical Britain, the Accidental Magic Reversal Squads aren't really that good at following them, especially when it comes to the Muggleborn Underage Magic Obliviation Protocol. I managed to convince Clarence that the policy is not only discriminatory, but also an entirely worthless endeavor, given that we would inevitably re-discover our magic and resume our experimentation, but without the advantage of knowledge gained from previous exploits." She shrugged, and gestured toward the sofa. "It wasn't even that hard."

Before Severus could ask about the exploits in question or figure out who 'Clarence' was, a muggle appeared from the depths of the house. She was perhaps five years older than Severus himself, and looked rather harried, her surface thoughts full of research on… teeth (Why _teeth?_ ) and blonde curls in disarray.

"Hello, Mr…"

"Professor Severus Snape," he introduced himself, then added with a half-suppressed sigh, "Potions Master and Head of Slytherin House at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

The muggle's eyes narrowed. "Doctor Emma Granger, orthodontic surgeon, Granger and Granger Dentistry. Euros, what sort of game are you playing at, here?"

The girl, Emily Holmes by her own admission (though Severus rather thought Euros suited her), pouted for a moment. "It's not a _game_ , Aunt Emma. He really is a wizard. He's come to invite me to a magical boarding school and prove to you that I'm not crazy."

Emma Granger smirked at that. "I fail to see the connection between the two, dear."

Severus blinked. He didn't often feel that he was missing something, but he was certain he had just done so. Dark Powers, he needed more coffee.

Emily gave her aunt a blank-faced stare. "Not _that_. About the magic."

"It's true, mum! Magic's real! Watch!" the younger child demanded, pointing at the television clicker. " _Xesikothoún!_ " she commanded, and it rose shakily into the air. Severus' eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline. Emma sat down very quickly.

"Stop showing off, Hermione," Emily said, nudging her cousin with an elbow and returning the clicker to the table with a wave of her hand. "This is _my_ school interview! You'll get your own when _you're_ eleven."

She added a short phrase in Russian, and the younger girl scampered off: _Go get the_ … something. Severus was more surprised that he recognized the language in his current, sleep-deprived state than that the girls apparently spoke it.

"English with guests, please, Euros," the dental surgeon corrected her niece absently, obviously still reeling from her daughter's feat of levitation.

"In point of fact," Severus interjected, shaking off his own shock and recalling that he did, indeed, have a job to do. "You've already been accepted, though if you would like to give your aunt a demonstration as well, I certainly won't stop you."

The girl shrugged and produced a candle from her pocket. After a few seconds' silent concentration, the wick burst into flame, due to, unless Severus was entirely mistaken, a very neat, very _focused_ wandless warming charm. _Impressive_.

He handed over her acceptance letter as the aunt stared at the candle flame. "Your father is going to be _furious_ ," she muttered finally. Severus caught a few stray thoughts which added up to an arson attempt, several years earlier. "Hand it over, Euros," she ordered, flicking her eyes to the letter in the Emily's hand.

Euros – Emily – _eh, fuck it, Euros it is_ – floated the pages across the room, rather than walking around the coffee table. There was a fine line between _impressive_ and _show off_ , and Severus rather thought that crossed it.

"A magical book list implies a magical book store," the child noted, perching eagerly on the edge of her seat. "Where is it?"

Severus rolled his eyes with a sigh. _So it begins…_ "There are several. The one I'm supposed to recommend is Flourish and Blotts, in Diagon Alley, London."

"Are you supposed to recommend it because the school has a deal with the owners, or because there are others that are less reputable?"

"Euros," Emma Granger said, still looking at the Hogwarts letter. "It's rude to ask about private business arrangements."

The girl gave an over-exaggerated sigh. " _Fine_. Which one would you recommend if you weren't _supposed_ to recommend the one?"

"Inkheart's," he answered after a moment's hesitation. His first thought was the Nameless Bookshop, but even he wouldn't send a muggleborn first-year into Knockturn. "Also in Diagon Alley. They have a broader selection, but they're slightly more expensive. Mab's Hollow in Dublin is comparable to F&B, but with more of a focus on esoterica. And then there's Du Lac and Sons up in Edinburgh. That's a branch of a French company, so they have better access to international titles, but the shop itself is smaller, so they almost always have to order whatever you want."

Emma Granger cleared her throat and asked, "Is there any additional information on this… Hogwarts? Literature or the like?" just as her daughter reappeared. She was carrying a black, spiral-bound notebook that Severus was certain spelt trouble.

Sure enough, once he handed the folder Minerva had prepared to the muggle, the girls monopolized his attention with questions they seemed to have listed after each of their encounters with the AMRS. These ranged from 'How does obliviation work?' to 'Who is You Know Who?' and 'Was there a war in Magical Britain about five to ten years ago? If so, why? How did it end?' to 'Why couldn't Clarence tell us all this?'

At some point between 'Why do grown-up wizards need wands?' and 'Why do wizards wear robes?' Emma fetched a pitcher of strong, sweet iced tea. The sugar went a short way toward reviving Severus, despite his pounding head. It was probably the only reason he made it through that final question, the answer to which was, "Because the Hogwarts Treaty reserves the right of introducing muggleborn children to Magical Britain for Hogwarts. It's an idiotic and outdated system, but Magical Britain is idiotic and outdated in general, so that's just par for the course."

The muggle snorted at that, before saying, "I've got one: Girls, how is it, exactly, that you already knew about… all this?"

Severus closed his eyes and tried to will his headache to abate while listening with half an ear to a story involving Tolkien, typical Ministry incompetence, an exploding mouse, and quite a lot of bickering. It didn't really work.

"Unfortunately," he interjected eventually, cutting off a lecture centering on Euros' responsibility to inform her aunt and uncle about people teleporting into the house and messing with their memories (no matter how absurd it sounded and how little they could do about it), "I must return to Hogwarts this evening." There was, he thought, no need to mention that returning to Hogwarts would take about ten seconds. "Do you have any other questions for me?"

It was, he thought, far more unfortunate than the prospect of escape that they did.

"Could you perhaps summarize the other educational options for a child in Magical Britain?" Emma asked, making a valiant attempt to enforce normality on the situation. "Euros has been homeschooled her entire life, and while that obviously won't do for the study of _magic_ -"

"I think we've done pretty well, so far," Hermione inserted with a genuine pout.

"Hush, dear. I worry that it might be a bit… overwhelming, to throw her directly into boarding school."

"I can handle it, Aunt Emma," the girl in question claimed, her expression hovering somewhere between excitement and determination.

Emma raised an eyebrow at her niece. "You told Justin Pinkerton to go play in traffic last month."

"He was being a git! I didn't think he would actually _do_ it!"

Severus raised an eyebrow, impressed despite himself. Accidental mind magic, including compulsions, was exceedingly rare.

"You've apparently been hiding the existence of magic from me for two years or more."

"It's the _law_ , Aunt Emma!"

"You were already hiding it before you knew that," the muggle argued calmly.

"We didn't know how to tell you," the younger girl defended her cousin, earning her a pat on the head from Euros, and a look that said 'you do not want to be involved in this conversation' from her mother.

"And don't think I didn't catch your deliberate disregard for the mouse Hermione blew up. I should consider that alone a violation of the Rules."

Euros glared at her aunt. "That was _ages_ ago, and I couldn't have predicted that would happen!"

"I think you could have predicted it was unsafe. Besides, you asked me last week if it was okay to vivisect the Kellers' dog. I suspect you just assumed the mouse was okay because you thought I wouldn't find out about it."

Something about the juxtaposition of the phrasing and the muggle's bland tone struck Severus as hysterically funny. His exhaustion might have had something to do with it. It took several seconds for him to register that a prospective student had just been accused of attempted vivisection by her guardian, by which point she had already pouted and changed the subject to avoid addressing the accusation of trying to flout 'the Rules,' presumably against animal cruelty.

("It wouldn't stop _barking._ And when you said 'no,' I didn't do it. _God!_ ")

He recalled belatedly the half-formed thoughts adding up to an arson attempt, and wondered whether there was some note in Euros' file to the effect that she was a budding psychopath.

("What _did_ you do?" Hermione asked hesitantly. "B'cause I haven't heard her barking lately…")

That _would_ explain why Dumbledore had chosen to make him do this visit, rather than Minerva. He had far more experience dealing with madmen (except Dumbledore himself, whom Minerva had known far longer) and far less experience with children. But then again, he rather doubted that Dumbledore would invite a psychopath to Hogwarts in the first place if he knew ahead of time, so perhaps not. He directed his attention back to the conversation before him with effort.

"I let it out of their yard and called animal control."

"Euros, that's _mean_ ," the little girl said, in obvious imitation of her mother.

It was also rather Slytherin, Severus thought. Though he did also note that there had been absolutely no denial of the vivisection accusation. And the fact that even the little girl found nothing odd about the scenario suggested that this sort of behavior was ongoing and openly recognized within the household. Even compensated for, perhaps. Interesting. But how should he interpret the fact that they were openly discussing it in front of an outsider, ie: himself?

"Meaner than leaving a dog barking in the yard all day? If they really want it back, it's not like it will be hard to track it down at the pound."

Emma cleared her throat again. "We will talk about this later, Euros." The girl grumbled something that might have been an assent before subsiding into a sulk. "As you may have gathered, Professor Snape, my niece… does not play well with others."

Well, he approved of her use of understatement, at least. Perhaps predictably, given his ambivalent relationship with the Headmaster, the fact that he suspected Dumbledore would not approve of this child made him want to bring her to Hogwarts all the more.

"Many of our students are homeschooled until they come to Hogwarts," he offered, deliberately pitching the school as though the previous exchange was of no consequence at all. "We professors are accustomed to dealing with the adjustment period the transition process entails. There are several smaller day-schools in England, if you would like to explore that option, though it would require almost the same degree of adjustment to the more… _socially demanding_ environment."

The muggle seemed somewhat thrown by his unflappable acceptance. "The other concern is, well… Euros is rather bright. She finds it very tedious to work at a similar pace to others her age. Were we to enroll her in a traditional school, she almost certainly could test out of her A-levels today – that is, into post-secondary –"

"I am familiar with A-levels, doctor," Severus cut her off. Now that she mentioned it, it was clear that the child did not speak or, from her questions, _think_ like an ordinary eleven-year-old. Come to think of it, the younger child, perhaps five, acted more like the average first-year. Intelligence must run in the family. He felt a bit stupid for overlooking it, but then, he wasn't anywhere near top form himself at the moment, and therefore quite disinclined to examine the mouth of the gift horse which was _not_ having to deal with dunderheads today.

She nodded. "Quite. Well, that being the case, you see why I would be hesitant to restrict her to the pace of her nominal peers. I do understand the concern and the need for training, but idle hands and all that. Are there perhaps… independent tutors we might contact?"

Unfortunately, he _did_ see why she would be hesitant to allow her niece to become too bored with her classes, even if she wasn't exaggerating the girl's intelligence. He had himself chafed at the pace of Hogwarts classes, which was geared toward the lowest common denominator, and he had had Lily and the Marauders to distract him. Regardless of how much he wanted to see the look on the Headmaster's face when he realized that he had another potential Dark Lady in his school, it would probably be for the best if he passed her along. She would, after all, most likely be sorted into Slytherin, and the last thing he needed just now was an intra-House blood-politics conflict.

"Most private tutors, I'm sorry to say, would not deign to give your niece the time of day, even if you could afford their fees, which are rather absurd: they target the wealthy elite of our society almost exclusively."

"I… see," the muggle said drily. "I hope there is a ' _but_ ' coming, Professor Snape."

He smirked. " _But_ , if Miss Holmes is as brilliant as you say, you may find someone who is willing to make an exception. If I may?" He looked from the muggle to the prospective student, raising a questioning eyebrow.

It was the girl who answered. "If you may what?"

"I can conduct a simple assessment of your talents and from there give you a list of prospective tutors who may be willing to overlook certain… financial concerns." _And personality disorders_ , he added silently. That alone would narrow the list considerably, regardless of the child's intelligence, since his first two choices to overlook that as well as her financial background and blood status (Bartemius Crouch Jr. and Astrid Wilkes) were in Azkaban and dead, respectively. Narcissa might do it, if she was bright enough. Muggleborn or not, a brilliant, psychopathic young witch was certain to remind her of Bellatrix as she once was, especially with that coloring. If not, well… old Slughorn would doubtless know someone.

She looked to her aunt, who shrugged, then back to him. "Uh… sure?"

He gave her no opportunity to reconsider, catching her eye and projecting himself into her mental 'space' immediately.


	28. EWR4: 1985 - Potential

Legilimency, especially on those who had not begun developing a self-aware 'mindscape' to temper their natural thought patterns, was always a bit strange, from the perspective of the legilimens.

Severus' first impression of Euros' mind was of standing on the edge of a whirlwind filled with flashes of light or color: a maelstrom of thoughts and observations. Like those of most people untrained in Occlumency, the girl's mind was undifferentiated, with little conscious thought given to how it _should_ be ordered to work most efficiently or allow her to conceal thoughts, or simply to allow her to more easily access and manipulate her own memories.

Severus made a point of keeping abreast of the latest research in the field – not that there was much, and even less which applied to the experience of a natural legilimens, who made contact with other minds through instinctive freeform magic rather than charms. He was aware of the latest studies conceptualizing the mind-space as a concentration-field which the legilimens 'tuned' some aspect of their own mind or magic to resonate with, and he found the idea described his experience perhaps more accurately than the traditional 'mindscape' paradigm. But he also understood how that paradigm had come to be so widespread.

It was simply easier to describe the experience of examining memories through the use of a complicated metaphor like the mindscape than to attempt to examine the process directly, especially when that was already how so many wizards envisioned their own minds. Within their mental space, their perception became a legilimens' reality, to a certain extent. Certainly their own perceptions of their minds influenced the way Severus perceived them.

But in truth, entering a 'mind-space' was not at all like stepping into some 'inner world.' It wasn't so much like seeing or hearing or feeling in the usual sense as it was like getting lost in one's thoughts, but at a distance. Of course, with a slightly different twist of focus, it _was_ possible to shift one's attention and see and hear and feel using the target's senses, but that was a different exercise entirely from skimming active surface thoughts or examining deeper memories.

Severus preferred the term _kenning_ to describe that uniquely peculiar sensation of being aware of another's thoughts and the way they moved, one leading to the next as new stimuli registered and new memories formed, fuzzing in and out of the target's consciousness, building connections to other thoughts and memories of moments that were in some way similar.

He knew that he was not really 'seeing' color or light or a whirlwind at all – that was simply the closest approximation he could make to any non-magical sense in order to consciously and logically process the state he was witnessing.

In any case, the girl's mind was not so different from most undifferentiated minds he had touched over the years, at least in its general form. The _speed_ of the thoughts and assimilation of new information was far more striking. He wasn't sure he had ever touched a mind that naturally moved so quickly. And even more surprisingly, she had clearly noticed his presence.

It was a matter of a split-second before he was, somewhat to his disbelief, isolated by a pattern of thoughts and memories which held the 'untethered' quality he recognized as belonging to a dream or imagined scene. He found his consciousness enclosed in a plainly furnished, institutionally beige room, which he suspected was based on a real place, simply because several imperfections had been reproduced – cracks in the corners of the ceiling, and a water stain beneath the sill of the weathered-looking window. There was a wailing as though of sirens or mourners fading in and out from no particular source, and a weak 'force' buffeting at him and urging him toward the door as the girl tried to push him out of her mind.

It was a shockingly competent attempt. Not very strong, but at least as sophisticated in its concepts as the basic Occlumency the older and more paranoid pureblood families insisted their children learn before Hogwarts, despite the fact that she clearly had no training in the subject.

 _A natural occlumens._

Well.

That changed things.

He opened the door experimentally, only to find a corridor painted with that bilious shade of muggle green which had been so inexplicably popular in the '60s. Yellowing linoleum and a drop ceiling with fluorescent lights buzzing overhead completed the unpleasant view.

He suspected that if he began walking, he would either end up lost in an endless, shifting maze, or else find that the only other doorway led out of her mind. In any case, he would not be playing along. It was a matter of propriety to use an avatar, maintaining enough 'distance' from the host mind that the target would be aware of his presence if they had the slightest ability to perceive mind magic. It certainly wasn't necessary. He unraveled the 'physicality' of his form with a thought, attuning his mind to hers slightly more thoroughly and envisioning his presence as becoming 'intangible' to her.

He ghosted straight through the back wall of the room and out of the scene, enjoying the sensation of frustration that condensed around him as she realized she could not hold him so easily, and returned to contemplating the shape of her mind.

The maelstrom of her raw observations was, ironically, a better defense than the institutional hellscape. For most it would not be, but her thoughts simply moved so _quickly_ that it would be impossible for nearly anyone to keep up with them, assimilating new stimuli and connecting them to each other, dragging new information and inferences out of the connections almost as quickly as she observed new things, new knowledge appearing so rapidly she hardly had to ask herself a question most of the time before it was answered.

That alone was enough to confirm her intelligence: she was most certainly every bit the genius Emma had implied, and would most likely learn anything anyone chose to teach her (or allowed her to observe) with near-alarming facility. The other aspects which would be important to narrow the field of potential tutors were her magical ability and her personality – it would be thoroughly remiss of him not to investigate his suspicions of psychopathy directly, while he was here.

He could already feel her trying to find a new way to isolate him.

Severus let a teasing, amused sensation emanate from his consciousness to hers, which only frustrated her further, before using Occlumency to divide his own attention into half a dozen parts.

There were certain spells for which it was necessary to maintain an awareness of multiple aspects at once. Any sort of wards which gathered information, for example, and arguably legilimency itself: he was 'connected' to his own body, still, even if it felt as though his consciousness had been entirely projected into the girl's mind. Intentionally employing the technique within her mind-space effectively duplicated his points of reference as he divided his focus. There was still a hard limit to the amount of information he could process at any given moment, and it was, in fact, much harder to think clearly while also maintaining his divided focus, but with a little effort, he could _observe_ from multiple 'places' at once and gather data to analyze later.

It was a most effective way to learn the patterns of a new mind's thoughts, and as an added bonus, would make it six times as difficult for her to pin him down.

He 'stepped into' the whirlwind and let it pull him apart, following a different thought with each fragment of his consciousness, tracking the way they moved, connections building, pulling the thought closer to the 'center' of the storm, stretching and twisting to reach out to innumerable other thoughts and observations, becoming a point of memory in a vast, organically shifting shape which could not be described with any geometry he knew, though he could trace the patterns of its sides and edges well enough.

He explored them with one fragment of his focus (still gathering information on the patterns of her mental processes and more 'visibly' distracting her with the others), quickly confirming his suspicions of her personality: her memory-structure lacked most of the visceral emotional links that he was accustomed to finding in other minds. The emotions with a more mental component – frustration, confusion, fascination, and so on – were prominent enough to be easily distinguished, but the usual connections of love, guilt, and sorrow were missing.

This was not entirely unfamiliar to Severus. There were more psychopaths (and sociopaths) among the Death Eaters than in most segments of society, after all, and he had honed his skills by practicing on his fellow soldiers. He had never seen it in so young a child – he had rarely used Occlumency on children in general, in fact, after he had gained control of his legilimency in his fourth year – but he had no doubt that what he was seeing was, in fact, consistent with his earlier, off the cuff assessment.

In any case, it did not unduly affect his ability to navigate between memories, despite the lack of certain memory-links, but as he had suspected, it would have to be a consideration in his recommendation. In fact, between that and her status as an incipient legilimens, he suspected the list would be rather short, even given her obvious intelligence. Making a decision while his mind was so scattered would be foolhardy in the extreme, as he could not properly consider all the variables at the moment, but he thought there would probably be only a handful of candidates to decide between.

He found the dimension of linear experience and followed the connections back along it, skimming over the surface of the memories themselves until he recognized the same room and hallways with which she had tried to imprison him: a psychological hospital. All the memories of that period were painted with frustration so strong it might almost be called rage and helpless confusion, and linked directly to a set of actions several months prior – a shortcut-bridge through/across the time between them. He followed it out of curiosity.

A game.

A murder.

Tinged with disappointment, not for the death of the boy she had drowned (checking on him every day to see whether her brother had lost yet), but because she had wanted her brother ( _Sherlock – what kind of muggles name their child_ _Sherlock_ _? Bloody toffs_ ) to succeed – to engage with her and prove himself a worthy opponent. He had failed.

Frustration that her plan had failed: backfired, in fact.

Burning pictures and drawings of the dead boy in an effort to erase his memory from the house.

The fire burning out of control, destroying her bedroom and that whole wing of the manor.

Her step-mother insisting that she was out to get them – that Sherlock was right, she _had_ done something to that poor boy – that she was a little monster.

Her father speaking on the phone: _"She needs help, Vi. I'm worried about her…"_

That was enough. Severus returned to the hospital to seek out the circumstances of her release: Protesting her confinement with everything she had for weeks on end (hunger-exhaustion-helplessness-confusion-frustration); Emma Granger: _"Acting like a feral animal is most definitely not going to get you out of here, Euros; you have to act human, or at the very least like Sherlock"_ ; the doctors' suspicion at her sudden reversion to model behavior (a child psychologist, years before, asking her how she felt, giving her the 'right' answers when all she felt was very, very confused; Sherlock – her basis for 'normal' children's behavior; hope-determination-frustration-helplessness); the diagnosis ( _betrayal_ , Severus noted, though Euros had not identified the feeling; frustration-confusion-helplessness-hope: ' _perhaps I didn't do it right?'_ ); her father's reaction, believing the doctors over her (the same emotions again, without the hope); a long period of helplessness-confusion-frustration and overwhelming _boredom_ where it seemed like she would never be allowed to leave the institution, no matter what she did, and life seemed hardly worth living; and then… Emma again, giving her 'ground rules' (modifications of those rules and times she had flouted them; lessons on how to act human); Emma's husband, his eyes filled with mistrust (Emma identifying the expression for her on the face of a stranger at a shopping mall); Hermione, following her constantly, with all the devotion that Sherlock had never had (Hermione; Sherlock; another, older brother, whose name Severus did not track down), inspiring self-satisfied smugness in the older girl and a possessive satisfaction she had never known before: her brother had never accepted that he _belonged_ to her in the same way her cousin did so naturally.

Her time with the Grangers was peaceful in comparison to that in the institution, with few periods of what Severus might term 'emotional upheaval.' He sped through her memories of learning to recognize patterns of behavior and expression and body language; of exploring new languages and pushing her cousin into learning them as well, shaping her into an ever-more-ideal companion; of magical and mundane experiments. It appeared that while Euros' control was uncannily developed for an eleven-year-old, her magical strength was generally lacking. If she had not both been present when Hermione had had her first major bout of accidental magic and resisted obliviation, he thought it was highly unlikely that she would ever have been registered as a witch at all. This might be a slight detriment to finding her a decent tutor, but Severus did not doubt that with a wand to focus and amplify the effects of her magic, she would be more than competent with mainstream spells as well as mind magic.

His final assessment made, he returned to the girls' discovery of magic and their series of encounters with the Accidental Magic Reversal Squads, probing to discover what she had known of Magical Britain before his arrival. He concluded that most of it had been implied by her questions, though it was even clearer from this perspective that Team Three had royally buggered that first meeting than it had been from Euros' recounting of it for Emma. In fact, that failed attempt at a legilimency-guided obliviation probably explained both why another team had been assigned to deal with the girls afterward, and why they had not attempted further obliviations of either girl.

It also likely explained why Severus had been assigned the task of introducing Euros to magic (officially), he realized, abandoning his additional focal points as he concentrated on this idea. There might not be a psychopath note in her file (which idea had been mostly facetious, anyway), but there was almost certainly one which read 'natural occlumens; latent legilimens,' and Minerva was pants at mind magic. It wouldn't do to have the Deputy Headmistress embarrass the school in front of a prospective student, if it turned out that the shock of being properly introduced to magic (and finding out that there was, in fact, a whole world of magic, which had been hidden from her for years) was enough to cause an episode of accidental mind magic. A valid concern, perhaps, given that he had seen hints in her memories of intentional use of compulsion on both animals and muggles, and she had been using casual legilimency to read her cousin's surface thoughts for years. There was no doubt in his mind that she would one day be a fully-fledged legilimens, even if she was not yet properly 'awakened.'

Then again: Dumbledore couldn't actually _know_ that. Severus _highly_ doubted that the AMRS obliviator had managed to examine any of her memories while he was busy getting his metaphorical arse kicked by an untrained child. _Idiot_. And all of those memories had been formed after that first encounter. So he had to wonder whether there was some story behind the old man's paranoia, perhaps from his own tenure introducing new children to magic as the Deputy Head.

Not that Severus was complaining (anymore): submerging his mind into another's and tracing the patterns of her thoughts was restive in a meditative way. It also gave him some respite from the physical pain of his withdrawal migraine, and piggybacking on the breakneck pace of the girl's thoughts had been energizing in the same way as a strike of creative inspiration.

It was with a distinct pang of regret that he began to disengage from her mind. His mission was accomplished and he was well aware that from the outside, he would appear to be gazing creepily into the child's eyes with no explanation. It was only a matter of time until the connection was interrupted, which would be painful for both of them.

He winced as he withdrew to his own mind and body and full awareness of his migraine returned. The lights of the sitting room seemed suddenly harsher, worse for the reprieve, and his stomach was positively churning.

He distracted himself by considering the options moving forward: the girl was intelligent enough to earn the favor of any tutor he might suggest, but as he had already concluded, the realization that she was a legilimens meant the list of qualified instructors was depressingly short. He had been correct when he estimated that he knew of four or five individuals who might be interested and capable, given her intelligence, but of those, one was a mind healer, and would never train a mentally unstable legilimens; one specialized _only_ in mind magic, and was unsuitable as a general tutor; two worked for the Department of Mysteries and would be more likely to study her than teach her; and one would probably get her killed on a cursebreaking mission in some exotic location before her thirteenth birthday.

There was, he realized with a faint start, only one truly viable option, and it was not ideal.


	29. EWR5: 1985 - The Offer

"You disappeared, but you weren't gone," Euros observed, her tone faintly accusing. "How did you do that?"

"Practice," he answered succinctly. "Dr. Granger, may I speak to you in private for a moment?"

"I want to stay," the girl interjected before the woman could answer. "If it's about me, I have a right to know."

Emma raised a questioning brow at Severus. "I think that's fair."

He nodded reluctantly.

"I want to stay, _too_ ," Hermione whined.

Severus glared at her, and she quailed, but she wrapped herself around Euros and fixed begging eyes on her mother.

"No," the muggle said.

"But _mum_ …"

"I said 'no,'" Emma repeated. "Professor Snape asked for privacy. It is incumbent upon us as good hostesses to give it to him. Please go to your room. And no eavesdropping," she added, as the girl dragged her feet toward the door. "More tea?" she offered, either reminded of her own hostessing duties, or as an excuse to ensure that her daughter was not lurking in the hallway.

"Coffee, if you have it," he requested, then added belatedly, "Please."

"I'll put a pot on."

As soon as she left the room, Euros fixed Severus with a piercing stare. After a few seconds, she spoke: "Anything you want to say to Aunt Emma in private, you can say to me directly, you know."

"I could," he agreed. "But she is your guardian, and the solution I am about to propose is going to seem somewhat self-serving, I suspect, especially as I am your only official contact within Magical Britain. I could lie to you to serve my own ends, and you would not know until it was far too late."

She smirked. "You seem awfully sure of yourself. I always know when people are lying to me."

Severus snorted. "You mean like when I say the sky is blue?" he said, projecting deception into the mental non-space between them, then occluded again, as was his habit. "Or when I say I was born on Mars?"

She frowned. "How did you do that?"

"Again, practice," he drawled, then relented. "It's called _occlusion_ , the art of keeping your thoughts and feelings to yourself. Most people don't. They project half-formed 'surface thoughts' and incoherent emotions around themselves all the time. Occasionally they'll project more coherent thoughts, like when your aunt saw you light that candle and thought of the fire you caused before they had you committed."

"You saw that?"

"Seeing isn't the right word, really, but yes," he admitted.

"And… before? And after?" she seemed uncertain.

He smiled. It was not a kind expression. He wondered if she knew the distinction. "Yes."

"And… you're still going to offer to be my tutor?"

He shrugged. "I've no room to judge. You'll learn that soon enough." He noticed he was rubbing his burn-scarred Dark Mark through his sleeve, and stopped.

"And… they let you teach children?" Euros asked, in the same tone she used for 'you're still going to offer to be my tutor?' – as though something didn't quite seem to add up about her observation.

Admittedly, Severus himself was slightly baffled about this one: he was more than halfway convinced that Dumbledore had appointed him Head of Slytherin as an obscure statement on how little he cared for the students of that House. He knew he was appointed Potions Instructor because the Headmaster wanted to keep an eye on him, and remained there because no one was really sure what side he was on: a permanent position doing a job he blatantly loathed was considered a sufficiently ambiguous 'reward' for his actions in the war that no one seemed to be too invested in seeing him removed.

"It's complicated," he shrugged. The politics of his current position were certainly too complex to explain before Emma returned with coffee. Besides, discussing his predicament would only make his migraine worse.

The girl nodded. "We have another minute or two, depending on whether she goes to check that Mine's in her room before she comes back. Can you teach me how to do that? It was _legilimens_ , wasn't it? But you didn't use a wand."

"No, I didn't use a wand, and no, it wasn't quite like the spell that moron used on you. I'm what they call a natural legilimens, which means I don't need the spell to create a connection between my mind and someone else's. And yes, I can teach you how to do the same. That is, in fact, the main reason I am offering to tutor you. Natural legilimens are rare. I know of less than a dozen of us in Magical Britain, including yourself. Several are too stupid to even consider asking _them_ to teach _you_. One would refuse on moral grounds; two would be more interested in studying you than teaching you; one is unsuited to teaching anything _other_ than mind magic; and O'Rourke's occupation is not exactly conducive to living a long and healthy life, let alone the taking on of an apprentice. Which just leaves… me."

"You don't sound too pleased about that," Emma said, moving from the doorway back to her chair, passing him a mug of coffee as she passed. He reprimanded himself for not noticing her return, and wondered how long she had been standing there.

He hesitated, then took a gamble on honesty. "I'm not. My contract with Hogwarts allows for up to two apprentices, but the current Headmaster has made it clear that he does not approve of that system. Taking on an apprentice would win me no favor with him, and we are already at odds. There are no other apprentices at Hogwarts, which would place you, Miss Holmes, in a unique and potentially unpleasant position with the student body, the rest of the staff, and the Headmaster.

"Apprentices are expected to already have a basic educational foundation and a strong foundation in their apprenticeship subject and thereby be able to help their Master with menial tasks and serve as a sort of teaching assistant, to ameliorate some of the additional work-load associated with their advanced education. Obviously I could not ask Miss Holmes to complete any such tasks for several years, thus I would be taking on a serious time commitment, with relatively little compensation for the immediate future.

"And I am the Head of Slytherin House, which is full of competitive, conniving children who will challenge the necessity of their abiding by the rules of their House, given that you would be exempted from that system, and my authority as their Head of House for having taken an apprentice from outside of it."

"But you're still going to offer," Euros observed. He nodded. "Why?"

He shrugged. "There is no one else, really. I _could_ put you in touch with O'Rourke, if you'd like a second opinion. I think she's even in Ireland right now. But I can tell you with about ninety-eight percent certainty that any names she comes back with will turn you away as being too dark, and therefore too dangerous to teach."

"Dark?" Emma asked.

Severus made an ambiguous hand-gesture. "Inclined toward the conventionally negative end of the emotional spectrum. Selfish, angry, antisocial…"

The muggle's eyes narrowed suspiciously. Before she could say anything, however, Euros intervened: "Yes, he knows. No, he doesn't seem to care."

"How _much_ does he know?" the woman asked, her tone matching her gaze.

"Approximately…? Um… everything."

"And… he's still offering to be your tutor?" It was clear where the girl had picked up that particular note of 'something doesn't add up,' Severus observed.

"Yes," he interrupted. Euros shrugged and nodded.

He could have elaborated on the fact that a precocious, dark-inclined legilimens – or even _latent_ legilimens – would remind people of the Dark Lord (quite frankly, she reminded _Severus_ of the Dark Lord – if she had been more powerful, he might have found himself wondering if the Dark Lord and Bellatrix had somehow managed to spawn without anyone noticing); that they would fear her, and it was to her advantage to learn to control herself early on, for that reason as well as the practical: uncontrolled legilimency could drive one mad.

He didn't. He suspected that Euros wouldn't care, and Emma was clearly looking for a benefit to him that outweighed the costs he had just listed.

He could have explained that aligning himself with a student with Euros' degree of talent, becoming known as her master, would help him build a reputation other than 'spy,' and that as she gained power and influence, he would as well.

But though that was true, it was hardly a consideration. If anything, using a child for her potential connections repelled him: he hated feeling like the fat old bastard who had been his Head of House.

Instead he drawled nonchalantly: "Have you _any_ idea how _tedious_ it is, teaching the average eleven-year-old every day, year after year? The temptation of training a student with whom I could have a decent conversation is enough to repay the effort, I assure you."

Euros froze for a moment, genuinely surprised by that reasoning, if he was any judge, though not, he thought, displeased. He caught a flicker of curiosity from her, wondering, most likely, if _he_ would be a half-decent conversational partner for _her_. He rather thought so. She assimilated new information at least an order of magnitude more comprehensively than he, but he was quite capable of keeping up with the pace of her inferences. Plus he could always cheat, and use legilimency to ensure that he noticed the same details she considered important in any given conversation.

Emma examined him skeptically, no doubt taking in the fact that he resembled death warmed over. He resisted the urge to snap at her that if he could keep up this conversation with a migraine on three days of practically no sleep, he was perfectly capable of keeping up any other conversation in less extenuating circumstances. The coffee was helping him to feel more functional, easing the pounding in his head ever so slightly, but the caffeine was making his hands shake. She likely thought him going through alcohol withdrawal. Ironic, really, as he avoided drinking to excess as a rule. Not that his self-medication was much healthier, really, but at least it had left him fully functional despite his grieving and the trauma he had suffered the war.

"Your qualifications?" she asked after a long moment.

Severus sighed. This would require some explanation. "The highest qualification in magical academia is Mastery of a subject. It signifies that the holder has a comprehensive understanding of the field, and has contributed new information to it, not unlike a muggle doctorate. It also serves as a de-facto teaching degree, as a Master is expected to have the knowledge necessary to train Apprentices and supervise Journeymen – not that the later title is often used in Magical Britain outside of Healing and Enchanting.

"There are fifteen Masteries recognized in Magical Britain: Healing, Enchanting, Arithmancy, Defensive Magic, Charms, Transfiguration, Magizoology, Runic Magic, Potions, Herbology, Astronomy, Alchemy, Spellcrafting, History, and Magical Theory, in order of popularity. Several others are recognized on the continent, but not in Magical Britain: Dark Arts, Light Arts, Ritual Magic, Offensive or Battle Magic, and Mind Arts, for example. There are also several career specializations which are regarded with a similar degree of recognition as official masteries: a Healing mastery with an emphasis in Mind Healing is the closest we have to an official Mastery of Mind Arts; Auror training is considered equivalent to a mastery in Defensive Magic; Hit Wizard training is equivalent to a mastery in Offensive Magic on the continent; Cursebreaking is often equated to an applied Mastery of Runic Magic; and so on." He stopped, as he realized he was beginning to ramble: the inevitable effect of too much caffeine and too little sleep.

"Go on," Emma prompted him.

"I am employed at Hogwarts on the strength of my Potions Mastery, which I achieved in 1980, eighteen months after my NEWTs, building on independent research I began during my Hogwarts years. That is the capacity in which I am permitted to take on an apprentice, though there is no real limitation on what a Master may teach their apprentices. I received a Mastery in Dark Arts and Defense from an American university in 1982 by publishing on several curses, countercurses, and potions I developed during the War. That is unfortunately not recognized in Magical Britain. On the continent it qualifies variously as a Mastery of Defensive Magic, Offensive Magic, Spellcrafting, or Dark Arts, depending on the country. In truth, it is closest to the latter, though I have the battle experience to support the former, as well."

"And you're teaching at the equivalent of a secondary school?" the muggle asked wryly, as though expecting an elaborate justification.

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. This did absolutely nothing to relieve the tension behind his eyes. "Magical Britain is small, and has no notable post-secondary educational institutions. Hogwarts tends to attract those teachers who are most serious about education. I am hardly the most overqualified professor at the school. Professor Sprout has masteries in Herbology, Potions, Healing, Light Arts, and Geomancy." Severus had been as surprised as anyone to realize this, but in retrospect, it was not entirely unexpected: Hufflepuffs did not believe in idleness. "Professor Flitwick has masteries in… Dueling, Offensive and Defensive Magic, Charms, Arithmancy, and Enchanting." There were also professors with no qualifications whatsoever, including Trelawney, Binns, and more than half of the Defense instructors, but Severus was not obligated to mention them. Nor did he care to.

"The NEWT is our equivalent of an A-level exam, and the basic requirement for an independent tutor in a given subject to the OWL level – an O-level. I achieved ten NEWTs in 1978 – six Outstanding and four Exceeds Expectations. Hardly record-breaking scores, but quite sufficient to qualify me as a general tutor in those subjects. In any case, they are all offered at Hogwarts, and as I am employed there, my apprentices are able to sit in on the other professors' lectures and practical lessons at any level I deem necessary, which would free Miss Holmes from the standardized curriculum, while still allowing her to take her OWLs and NEWTs in the full array of Hogwarts subjects."

The girl had acquired the informational folder – when had that happened? – and was flipping through it eagerly. "Are there classes on literature or science?" she asked. "Oh! What about anatomy?"

Severus smirked weakly, recalling Lily's victorious grin when they had finally made things up in the first week of their sixth year, and she announced her latest triumph. "Madam Pomfrey, our Healer, has been known to train the occasional student in the basics of her art, including anatomy. I'm sure something could be arranged. As for muggle subjects, there are no classes as such, but it is my understanding that Madam Pince, who attended Cambridge after graduating from Hogwarts, has organized a series of study groups for any students who wish to earn their muggle competencies."

Euros looked pleased, but Emma hummed noncommittally. "Your Mastery is in Potions. Correct me if I'm wrong, but no matter what else you teach Euros, her apprenticeship and eventual Mastery would also be in Potions, would it not?" She was not wrong.

Severus nodded, and immediately regretted it, as the world spun wildly. "Officially."

"Officially," Emma repeated. "But… what reason is there for her to take that particular course, rather than, say… asking this Madam Pomfrey or Professor Sprout to apprentice her as a Healer?"

The wizard could not help a tiny snort of laughter escaping at the thought of Pomona or Poppy taking on the challenge of a psychopathic teenage legilimens, let alone one of Euros' intelligence. She would run rings around them without even trying. "Legilimency," he said succinctly. After a brief pause to renew his focus, he elaborated: "Any tutor you approached would be happy to apprentice Miss Holmes. I could give you twenty or thirty names of Masters in various fields who would not even blink at a little recreational animal sacrifice or fire-starting. Similarly, I could give you a dozen names of individuals I believe have mastered the Mind Arts sufficiently to help Miss Holmes learn to control those talents. Of those, perhaps five would overlook incipient psychopathy – though they would call it a 'naturally dark personality.' You arrived just as I was explaining to Miss Holmes why none of them would be suitable to supervise her general education."

"But you would. And you _just so happen_ to be the man assigned to introduce our family to the magical world."

Severus shrugged, suddenly too exhausted for words. His queasiness returned in full force. He should have refused the coffee: it was sitting poorly on his empty stomach. With great effort, he managed to approximate his previous tone: "I would say it was a coincidence, but in truth I was likely chosen rather than the Deputy Headmistress because my employer knows that Miss Holmes has some talent for the Mind Arts, and I am Hogwarts' resident expert. There _might_ be a suitable tutor in France or Prague, but, well…"

"Well _what_?" Euros asked irritably.

"I was under the impression your aunt wanted you to grow up to be a half-decent person," he told her bluntly. "The primary expectation when potential tutors hear 'magically precocious, highly intelligent, dark-inclined natural Occlumens and Legilimens' will be that you are destined to become the next Morgana. Most will want to either kill you before you can become a threat, or break you or tempt you and turn you into a tool for their own ends."

The muggle's eyes narrowed, all protectiveness for her all-but-adopted niece. "But you won't?"

"No," he said simply, unwilling to elaborate.

"No?" she repeated skeptically.

" _No_ ," he affirmed, slightly more vehemently, wondering if he could excuse himself to the loo, or ask for a glass of water, or something.

She made that noncommittal hum again. _I don't know if I believe you_ , it said. "I think I should tell you what I see when I look at you," she murmured, almost too softly for him to hear. "Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but I see a young man who has _no one_. You are all alone in the world, Severus Snape, _Professor_ Snape. You are as isolated as any Holmes – more so, perhaps, because you are an idealist. You fought for the dark in your war, did you not? The side that lost? And yet you do not speak so harshly of the dark itself as you do of your Dark Lord and your Leader of the Light. I think you still follow that ideology, even though you have somehow convinced the other side to take you in. You have survived, yes, but you have surrounded yourself with people who can never understand you and who will not even try."

The man in question said nothing. She was not wrong, and even if she had been, he wasn't sure it was a smart choice to open his mouth at the moment. Not only was he feeling quite ill, but she seemed to be doing the work of outlining a suitable motivation for him.

"I see a proud young man, who has the potential to be a great teacher but no desire to do so. You would rather do your own research than answer the questions of children and teach them the basics, day in and day out. And yet you cannot quite shake the urge to do so, when they ask. I see a young man who cares more than he would like to admit: both resentful and proud of the children who are his responsibility, and protective of them, perhaps for no better reason than they remind you, just a bit, of yourself. I see a young man who _could_ lie to me, if he wanted to, but who _doesn't_ want to, because you want more than anything else for someone to _see_ you and _know_ that you are more than the tangle of deceptions and assumptions and old loyalties and _politics_ that you have woven around yourself and had imposed upon you."

Severus was not really sure how he had managed to give so much away. It surely had something to do with the fact that he wasn't at all well. He was quite certain he was not normally so transparent as to be readily dissected by a bloody muggle without so much as a hint of legilimency. But her inferences: ' _You want someone to see you'_ – _bah._

He let her words continue to roll over him as he concentrated on quelling the churning of his stomach.

"I see a young man who has done so much in his life already – so many things, some of them terrible – but who regrets none of it. No one is so sure of himself as you if they believe they have made a major, life-changing mistake somewhere along the line. If you had to choose again, you would do everything exactly the same, wouldn't you? But you're clearly struggling, still, years after the war is over, to come to terms with something… someone, I expect, that you lost along the way. It's clear in the way you talk about it that it's not quite over for you. And it's equally clear that you're trying to move on. You wouldn't be here if you weren't: you'd be drunk in a corner pub somewhere, or drugged out of your mind, probably on some home-made concoction, since I don't take you for the type who trusts others when you can do for yourself, and what is the conjunction of Dark Arts and Potions if not poisons and drugs?"

Well, that was… accurate. Bugger all – how had he managed to so thoroughly overlook her, sitting so quietly and reading the literature as though in shock? Clearly she hadn't been – more like letting him think she was not paying attention as he interacted with the girls, gathering data as he answered their endless questions…

His head was swimming.

"This is what I see: a young man who does not know what to do with himself in a time of peace, because he grew up in a time of war. A man who is looking for a cause, or a project: some reason to take a stand and stop simply going along with whatever he has been told to do by his savior/jailor these past several years. A sense of purpose to shake off the lack of motivation that has plagued him since the war ended. And you want my niece to be this purpose, likely because you see yourself in her: the young witch who shares your rare gift of mind-reading and a penchant for darkness that you can relate to and speaks and thinks far beyond her years, as you once did, and whom you suspect will be every bit as lost and isolated in your world as you have been."

"Aunt Emma?" Euros tried to interrupt.

Severus agreed: he couldn't do this anymore. He was going to be ill. Gods and Powers - he was feeling downright _faint_.

Emma ignored her niece, and for all her observational prowess, seemed not to realize that Severus was in serious danger of vomiting on the obnoxiously abstract-patterned, jewel-toned rug that lay beneath the coffee table.

"Now _do_ correct me if I'm wrong, Severus Snape, because you were not wrong about me: I do want Euros to grow up to become a half-decent person, and you're asking me to hand over, in essence, not only her teaching, but her raising, to a nigh-perfect stranger: a man I have known for less than six hours, who is offering to spirit her away to another world entirely, where I and my fellow muggles cannot follow. He presents it as though he is doing us a favor – as though this is the only realistic option – and asks me to trust him not with my life, but with the life and future of a young girl who, whatever else she may be, is first and foremost my niece and my responsibility. And whether I do so depends entirely on whether I have judged him truly or not. So tell me, Severus… Am I wrong about you?"

Severus didn't know what the right answer was. He was hardly following the question. The room was spinning. Closing his eyes only made it _tilt_ as well.

 _"Aunt Emma!"_

" _What_ , Euros?"

Severus tried to stand, to get to the kitchen or the loo or _anywhere_ that wasn't directly in front of the muggle and the girl he really _did_ want as an apprentice before vomiting. He immediately collapsed.

The last thing he heard before consciousness fled entirely was a young girl's flat voice saying, " _That_."


	30. EWR6: 1985 - Tentatively Accepted

Severus woke with a sudden start: not the adrenaline jolt of a reviving charm, but the all-natural, instinctive, fear-filled realization that he had no idea where he was. He kept his eyes closed. It was generally speaking best not to let one's captors know that one was conscious, if at all possible. Not that he had ever been captured by the enemy, but Bellatrix had driven the lesson home in the course of his training as a Death Eater in her inimitable way: waking up in an unfamiliar place almost certainly meant he had let his guard down and was about to be horribly tortured.

Except.

The war was over, and had been for over three years.

Bellatrix was in Azkaban and Severus… well, he had been under Dumbledore's control. What had…? _Oh_.

He finally caught up to himself, recalling the circumstances under which he had passed out and taking in what he could of his surroundings.

The sheets were rougher than his own, the pillows fluffier, and there was a smell of muggle antiseptic in the air. A hospital? There were two minds in the room with him – one very familiar, Euros Holmes, alert and amused – and one with a younger, softer shape, sleeping soundly – Hermione, most probably. His left arm itched where someone had inserted an intravenous needle and taped it in place, and there was a steady beeping in the background, though he could hardly hear it over an argument in the corridor.

Was that… Emma Granger?

"We told the doctors that you were walking around our neighborhood, and passed out right in front of our house," Euros said quietly.

Severus' heart rate spiked at being unexpectedly addressed, and with it the frequency of the beeping. Which would explain how she had known he was awake. It must have spiked when he regained consciousness as well. He opened his eyes.

"We're being good Samaritans and waiting until you wake up to go home. Or we were, until that wizard in the purple suit showed up and started obliviating people and making them not notice him. I don't think it matters, now."

Purple suit… " _Dumbledore's_ here?"

"Long beard, white hair, gold specs. About 185 centimeters. This is his," Euros added, holding up a very familiar wand.

Severus blinked at it. "How did you get Albus Dumbledore's wand?" For that matter, where was his _own_ wand? His holster had been removed along with his transfigured suit.

The girl giggled. "He forgot about effective range and got too close to Aunt Emma trying to obliviate her. She snatched it and gave it to me before he could make her give it back. He tried to take it back with magic, but Hermione stopped him." There was a distinct note of pride there, Severus thought. "And then Aunt Emma slapped him for trying to use magic on us, because and I quote, 'I don't know who you think you are, but you have no right to use magic on my girls.' She sent us in here, and they've been arguing for about half an hour, now."

"Oh." Severus didn't really know what to say to that. It struck him as fairly absurd that the 'most powerful wizard in Britain' had been disarmed – _and slapped_ – by a muggle, but then, Dumbledore and the Light always had underestimated muggles. And it wasn't as though he would fight back against one.

The door opened with a click, and there was an enraged shriek from Emma as she was evidently prevented from closing it. "Don't you dare!" she shouted. "Euros, you have my permission to set this bastard on fire if he tries anything!"

Dumbledore, now visible, glared at the woman he was holding in place with some wandless charm. "I do not enjoy using magic on muggles, madam, but you leave me no choice!" he declared self-righteously, before silencing her tirade against him.

Euros grinned and pointed the man's own wand at his chest. " _Fotia!_ " before Severus could say 'don't do it.' (Not that he tried.)

Dumbledore hastily conjured a wandless shield to absorb the heat of the flames, his eyes comically wide. (The girl appeared to be torn between excitement that her spell had worked so much more effectively than it did without a wand, and irritation that he hadn't caught fire.) "How?" the Headmaster asked, dumbstruck.

Severus cleared his throat.

"Severus, my boy!" the old man began, but the younger wizard cut him off.

"Let Dr. Granger go, Dumbledore," he said as firmly as he could while trapped in a muggle hospital bed. "Euros, please refrain from setting my boss on fire."

"Aunt Emma said he was your jailor," the girl pouted, just as the Headmaster said, "I'm not so sure that would be wise, my boy." He glared at the child as her words registered.

"It's complicated," Severus told her. "But regardless, the arrangement we discussed will be excluded as a viable alternative if you set him on fire."

She sighed. "Fine, but I'm keeping his wand. Just in case."

"My dear girl –"

" _Don't_ antagonize her, Dumbledore," Severus cut him off again. "And let her aunt go. Why are you even here?"

"Well, I was looking for you, my boy," the Headmaster said sharply, before releasing the muggle woman with a huff.

She stormed into the room, slamming the door behind her, clearly ready to resume her argument (beginning with a kick to the balls, which had a certain amusement value), but Severus deflected her ire with a wandless compulsion: "Emma, _calm down_."

" _Severus_ ," the old goat reprimanded him sharply as the irate mother froze on the spot and took a deep breath.

"Oh, what's that? Let the muggle who stole your wand beat you to a bloody pulp? If you insist…"

"Surely she wouldn't…" Dumbledore looked doubtfully at the now coldly furious woman.

"She would," the muggle in question assured him, along with Severus and Euros.

"…Ah," the old man subsided, finally.

"Now, Emma, if you would be so kind, please explain what the bloody fuck is going on here."

"I was –" Dumbledore began.

Severus raised an eyebrow at him in a tired impression of his usual disapproving expression. "I know you have a _lot_ of names, Headmaster, but unless I missed a memo at some point today, none of them are _Emma_. Dr. Granger, if you would?"

"Don't speak to me as though I am not every bit as irritated with you as I am with _him_!" she snapped. "You passed out and vomited on the rug. I called an ambulance and we brought you here… six hours ago, now. You were diagnosed with acute withdrawal from a truly staggering dependence on diazepam or some similar substance, which I note you did not see fit to mention at any point during our conversation!"

"It's not relevant!" Severus defended himself.

"I think I'll be the one to judge whether your addiction is relevant in the decision to hand my niece off you and your school, thank you very much!"

"It's _not_ relevant because I had _already decided to quit_! I wouldn't have been in withdrawal if –"

"As though an addict's opinion of his own state can be trusted!"

"Dark Powers take you! I'm not an addict! There is a _difference_ between chemical dependency and psychological addiction. The latter is not an issue, and I was more than halfway through the worst of the former! I am a fully qualified Potions Master, and I _do_ know what I'm doing when it comes to self-medication, damn it!"

The muggle snorted. "And doctors _never_ get addicted to prescription pain killers. Pull the other one."

Severus seethed as Dumbledore said hesitantly, "My boy? I had no idea you were suffering so – you should have said something. We could have gotten you help. Why, Poppy –"

"Poppy Pomfrey knows nothing about –" Severus began, but Emma talked over him: "You can just shut your bloody mouth and go stand in a corner or something! What kind of headmaster doesn't realize that a man in charge of a full quarter of his school – responsible for the wellbeing of _children_ – is dependent on drugs to do his job? Even if his current state is not the norm, surely that would have made the fact that he was in no fit state to represent your school _even more obvious_! You admitted when you arrived that you were the one who sent him to us today, so you _must_ have seen him – even when he arrived on our doorstep he looked hung over and strung out!"

"Madam Granger, I –"

"I said _shut up_!" the muggle glared. "You strut in here all high and mighty demanding to see your misplaced wizard, modifying memories right and left; refuse to listen when I try to tell you the state he's in; attempt to use magic on _me_ , when it is my understanding that I am fully within the bounds of your Statute of Secrecy; try to use magic on _my children_ , who are _definitely_ within the bounds of that bloody law – you've used up your three chances and _then some_!"

Severus spoke up before Dumbledore could, as Emma paused to catch her breath. "Headmaster, might I have a moment alone with Dr. Granger and Miss Holmes?"

The old man had the temerity to look offended. "Surely whatever you have to say, Severus, you can say in front of me."

Severus folded his arms over the pastel hospital robe the muggles had dressed him in, and fixed his employer not with a glare, but the flattest, most disbelieving _stare_ he could muster. "I'm not going to apparate out of this bed, Dumbledore. I am not avoiding you and have been following your orders to the letter all gods-cursed day. I would simply like a moment of privacy to attempt to repair the damage that has been done to the rapport between Dr. Granger and Miss Holmes and myself by this… unfortunate incident."

The old man looked as though he could not believe there was much 'rapport' to damage, but after a long hesitation, he assented. "Very well. I shall wait outside. I don't suppose I might have my wand back, in order to continue erasing our presence from this establishment?"

Euros looked to Emma, who hesitated.

"Oh, give it back to him," Severus rolled his eyes. "And give me mine, too, if you have it."

Emma nodded, and Euros smirked, pulling Severus' wand from her pocket and handing it over before tossing the Headmaster's to him from across the room. He caught it with a wandless summoning charm and stalked out of the room. Severus smirked, far more amused than he thought possible by the interaction he had just witnessed. It wasn't often that Dumbledore was forced to reckon with someone who did not respect him simply on the strength of his authority and reputation, and he could hardly go around forcing muggle parents to bend to his will if he wanted to continue thinking of himself as a paragon of the Light.

The door closed with a snap, and Severus quickly and silently performed a series of anti-eavesdropping charms. When he was finished, he added, with the utmost sincerity: "My apologies, Dr. Granger, both for the compulsion I used on you and for the situation in which we currently find ourselves." Her expression softened slightly. "I did not anticipate that my current infirmity would affect my ability to provide a reasonable introduction to Magical Britain. In my defense, I did not predict that I would be present in your home for more than an hour or two." She nearly smiled, thinking on the hours of questions her daughter and niece had put him through. "There are… extenuating circumstances which have recently been… partially resolved, which action precipitated my decision to forgo the potions regimen I have been maintaining over the past three years. I am entirely confident that by the time term begins in September, I will be fully recovered and able to take on Miss Holmes' apprenticeship, if you are amenable."

Euros shrugged and nodded, obviously unconcerned, but Emma's eyes narrowed. "Apology tentatively accepted, Professor Snape. As for the issue of Euros' apprenticeship, well… that depends. Do you recall the topic of discussion prior to your little fainting episode?" she asked snidely, apparently picking up where they had left off in their negotiations with no time wasted on useless pity. He smiled faintly. He did like a ruthless, no nonsense woman.

"You were… not wrong," he admitted. "The circumstances which predicated my use of Lemnum Lethaeo included, among other things, the loss of a very dear friend at the very end of the war. Her death was," he hesitated. "Her death was partially my fault, and I have only just begun to come to terms with it. It is also true that I have little concept of how to function outside of conflict: I was targeted for recruitment when I was fifteen, and officially joined the Death Eaters at seventeen." The muggle's breath caught as he confirmed her suspicions of his loyalties, but she said nothing. "The Dark Lord's second in command was a harsh teacher. We suffered greater torture at her hands in the name of training than we ever did in battle. And," he added after another hesitation, "it is a… moderately well-known fact that I was a double agent for the last year and a half of the war. I am still in the rather unique position of not truly belonging on either side, and only slightly better trusted now that one of my masters is gone. Dumbledore showed up here tonight because I did not return to the castle as scheduled, and he feared I was attempting to escape, not out of any false-grandfatherly concern for my wellbeing."

Emma gave his scornful tone a crooked smile. "Got that, thanks. That's why I didn't want to let him in to see you. It was pretty clear you two don't get on when you were talking about him earlier. So, you're telling me you abuse potions to cover up PTSD?"

He scowled, then yawned. The adrenaline rush of his sudden awakening was wearing off, and he felt more exhausted than he had _before_ passing out, if that was possible. "I'm telling you I _was_ using – _not_ abusing – potions to ameliorate the psychological effects of my experience in the war, yes. And I'm telling you that now that I've started to come to terms with Lily's death, I will be taking a more proactive approach to dealing with those effects, regardless of your decision regarding Miss Holmes' apprenticeship. Though I really must ask you to decide before Dumbledore returns, because there are certain arrangements we should discuss while we have the privacy."

The muggle's eyes hardened as she looked down at him. "I will not enter Euros into such an arrangement without due consider-"

"Why was Lily's death important?" Euros asked, cutting off her guardian.

"What?" Emma turned to stare at the girl.

"His friend, Lily, her death, why did it matter? Why do you _care_?"

Severus joined her, more than a little confused by the abrupt change of subject, but answered honestly, taking a moment to phrase his response in a way he suspected she would understand: "I suppose because… a long time ago, I was Lily's like Hermione is yours."

That this was probably the _most_ honest answer he could give to that question was entirely coincidental.

Euros beamed.

"What?" Emma repeated, looking from her niece to her daughter, who was curled up in a visitor's chair, sleeping like a log – probably exhausted from foiling whatever magic Dumbledore had attempted to take his wand back. Severus wished he could have witnessed that particular scene.

Severus shrugged. "I unintentionally betrayed the person who was the center of my life for a very long time?" he hazarded as a translation of the relationship that had defined his life more than any other between the ages of six and twenty-one. 'The other half of my soul,' would have been closer, but far too soppy for words. He had been _hers_ , in every way that mattered, despite their inability to escape the realities of the war.

"Not _you_ ," the muggle said, looking pointedly at her niece.

"Oh! Yes."

"Yes?" Emma repeated.

"Yes. _I've_ considered it, and I want to do it. The apprenticeship."

"Euros…"

"Aunt Emma. You're going to ask for more time, and the professor is going to say yes, and I'm going to spend the next three days convincing you that this will work, and that will be three days wasted, because I already _know_ you're going to say yes, because I will not take 'no' for an answer. _You_ just don't want to rush into anything."

"Give me a _reason_ , Euros. He's… Even you have to see that he's unstable and that makes him unsuitable, despite his qualifications. We'll find someone else."

The girl shook her head stubbornly. "That's not important. Don't you see? He explained a human thing in a way that made sense to _me_. He _understands_. Better than you do, even," she added after the slightest pause.

Severus winced. He wouldn't have pushed the muggle so far, so quickly, if it had been him, but apparently the girl knew her aunt well enough to judge: rather than become offended at the idea that some stranger who had known the child for all of six (conscious) hours knew her better than she who had devoted years to raising her, the woman sighed. She seemed to deflate, almost visibly collapsing in on herself. She nodded to the girl before turning to Severus. "I'm going to want a contract."

 _Focus, Severus!_ "I'll have the standard apprenticeship papers written up and delivered to you," he answered, trying to think clearly through the fog of sleep that was closing in on him. "The Muggle Liaison Office at the Ministry will be able to point you toward a solicitor to confirm its validity. Their address should be in the packet prepared by the Deputy Head."

Emma nodded approvingly. "And if we should need to contact you?"

"It will take a few days, but I can set up forwarding post from an address in London. I'll include the details with the contract. We should meet with your solicitor to negotiate any necessary changes, sign it, and have it witnessed."

"We should also meet to go book shopping!" Euros interjected, with more genuine excitement than she had shown for any other topic yet.

"And for all the other supplies on that list," her aunt added. "I presume she _will_ need the standard Hogwarts equipment, if she is to sit in on lessons."

The wizard nodded. "Everything but the uniform – and I will put together a… more comprehensive book list." ' _Comprehensive'_ wasn't the word he had wanted, but it hardly mattered. "The required introductory texts are available in the school library. Your money would be better spent on more advanced theory and personal copies of reference books."

"Very well. Shall we plan to have done with it all at once?"

"That seems most reasonable," Severus allowed. He could feel Dumbledore pacing impatiently on the other side of the wall, and began to talk faster. "Send me a selection of convenient dates once you've had a chance to take the contract to a solicitor, preferably ah… in the first week of August. I will request a delay in your Hogwarts acceptance on your behalf, citing explorations of other options, which should give us plenty of time to get the paperwork finalized."

"Agreed," the muggle nodded, just as the Headmaster began probing rudely at the privacy charms Severus had set, a clear warning that he intended to break them momentarily.

Euros nodded, and Severus dropped the spells.

"Well, if that's all," Emma announced as the door opened, "I believe we'll be off. It seems I have a few letters to send."

"I hope to hear from you soon, Dr. Granger."

She gave him a rather peculiar smile as she offered, "You may call me Emma."

"Only if I am Severus," he answered, blinking in astonishment. He could not recall the last time anyone had extended an offer of informality to him, and had certainly not expected it given the hash he had made of the day. Hadn't she just been calling him an addict a moment ago?

"Severus, then," she nodded, gathering up her sleeping child.

"Emma."

"Bye, Professor Snape."

"Miss Holmes," he nodded.

The muggle and her niece paraded past the Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump and Headmaster of Hogwarts as though he were no more important than a house elf holding the door and disappeared from view. Severus was hard-pressed not to smirk as the old man looked after them with a rather irritable frown marring his grandfatherly façade.

The immediate comment of, "That child is going to be trouble, I can already tell," did nothing to ameliorate the urge, though "Are you well enough to apparate? I daresay Poppy would be more than happy to take a look at you and ensure that you are recovering from this little… ordeal, and I've been away from Hogwarts too long as it is," was enough to foil it.

Severus yanked the needle from his arm and rolled out of the bed, deliberately flashing his pasty arse at the old man before transfiguring the hospital gown to a plain black robe. "It's not as though I asked you to come!" he snarled. "I had everything under control!"

Dumbledore looked around pointedly at their circumstances.

"It wouldn't have been a problem if they hadn't kept me answering questions for five bloody hours! _And_ they want more than the one week to consider their options, send off to the other schools for more information. She was even talking about finding a private tutor for the girl."

The Headmaster's eyes narrowed. "Did you tell them that she would be the only muggleborn in her class?"

"What was I supposed to say when they asked about demographics? You didn't _tell_ me I was supposed to _lie_."

"Severus…" Dumbledore said reprovingly.

"Don't give me that ' _Severus…'_ dragonshite, Dumbledore! I told them magic was real, gave them the information packet, answered _all_ their _fucking_ questions – If you wanted a friendly face to introduce them to Magical Britain, you should have sent someone else."

The old man hummed noncommittally. "And there were no… surprises, of any sort?"

"Were you _expecting_ some sort of 'surprise'?" Severus sneered. "No, don't answer, I don't even care. Unlike _some people_ , I have things to do today," he drawled. He removed the wire of the heartrate monitor from his finger and disapparated with a crack, leaving a sustained beep and a rather irritated (but not suspicious) Dumbledore in his wake. He wasn't lying: he needed to send a letter to Narcissa to get a recommendation for a solicitor, and then sleep for as long as he possibly could. He had no idea what the blasted muggles had been pumping into his bloodstream, but whatever it was, he could hardly keep his eyes open, and after the past three sleepless nights, he was ready to take whatever he could get.


	31. EWR7: 1985 - Diagon and Knockturn

It took three days for the contract to arrive, and another two for Emma to arrange to meet with the solicitor recommended by the Muggle Liaison Office. During those five days, Hermione explained the existence of magic to Dan, Emma explained the fact that Euros would be going to boarding school (and that her father would be paying for it) to Siger, and Euros spent a great deal of time making lists of additional questions for the professor who would be her Master.

It was hard to say whether Dan was more excited about the fact that magic was real or that there would soon be far greater (physical) distance between his daughter and his niece. (Euros did not point out that Hermione would be joining her in the magical world when she was old enough. There was plenty of time for Dan to come to that realization on his own.) Siger was insufferably smug about the fact that Emma apparently 'couldn't handle' dealing with Euros, but did agree to pay for her education, at least 'until she gets herself expelled.' Since Euros was fairly certain that one could not be expelled from an apprenticeship (the contract seemed rather binding for both parties) she had no qualms about accepting this condition. The list of questions grew so long that Euros reorganized it, leaving spaces so that she could post it to Severus and he could simply write the answers before returning it. If their little interrogation on that first Saturday was any indication, it would take at least ten hours for him to answer each question in person.

She had not expected to see him again so soon, but as it turned out, the solicitor Emma had contacted thought the contract Severus had had drafted was more than fair to Euros. He did raise an eyebrow at the clause allowing Severus blanket permission to use legilimency on Euros until she reached the age of consent and could tell him 'no' on her own, but had nodded hesitantly when Euros had told him that she wanted to learn the mind arts.

Since there were no changes that needed to be made, the solicitor had 'floo-called' the professor, and he had come through the fire to sign it that same afternoon. Euros had given him her notebook in person, after adding 'Why did you write the contract in my favor?' to the end of the list, and he had arranged, after a short negotiation with Emma, to take Euros shopping on Monday, while Emma and Dan were at work and Hermione at daycare. Emma was very disappointed about this, because she wanted to see more of the magical world, but she had no real grounds to object, seeing as she _had_ just signed a contract to the effect that Severus had as much right to act as Euros' guardian as she did herself.

It was on that Monday that Euros decided she actually _liked_ her Master. She had decided she wanted him for a teacher when he managed to so effortlessly invade her mind. She had decided that he would probably be good at it when he had explained his own so-very-human experience of loving and losing his friend in a way that she could almost relate to. But it was not until they had spent several hours alone together that she decided she would voluntarily choose to submit herself to his company.

Quite simply, being around him was _easier_ than being around anyone else she had ever met.

The only irksome thing was that she couldn't exactly say _why_.

He had appeared with her notebook in hand two minutes before their appointed meeting time. Each question had an answer, even if it was 'We'll cover this in lessons,' or something snarky like 'That is, in fact, the fundamental question of magical theory. If and when you figure it out, let me know,' down to 'To do otherwise would be socially unacceptable, given that you are muggleborn and I am a known Death Eater.'

After a quick greeting to Emma, Dan, and Hermione, the wizard had instructed her to take his arm, and she had experienced apparition for the first time. It was not an entirely unpleasant sensation – it felt almost as though she was being compressed from every direction at once, as though the magic was forcing her down into a single point, or transporting her through one before allowing her to expand again when they reached their destination.

Diagon Alley was loud, colorful, and sparsely populated, though the people who were present somehow managed to make it seem crowded with their sweeping robes and expansive gestures: for the most part they seemed well-suited to the environment. Euros kept close to Severus as they made their way to the bank at the end of the street: she presumed they could not apparate there directly for security purposes. Along the way, she took note of the variety of shops, most of which seemed to sell various hand-made goods; the people, as Aunt Emma had taught her; and catalogued the ways in which this little magical enclave differed from the outside world. There were many: too many to reasonably list. Even the _air_ smelled different, as though they had somehow managed to filter out the exhaust fumes and replace it with something more… organic.

The bank was run by goblins: humanoid creatures with an olive tint to their otherwise pale skin, dark hair and eyes, and pointed teeth and ears. They ranged in height from somewhere around one meter up to her own 148 centimeters, appeared to have an extra joint in their exceptionally long fingers, and wore, of all things, pinstriped three-piece suits. Severus informed her when she asked that this was a deliberate attempt to distance themselves from the mainstream culture of Magical Britain, which was dominated by wizards. She looked forward to reading about the history of goblin-human relations, which, from the hints Severus gave, sounded fascinating. She also couldn't help but wonder how many other intelligent species there were in the magical world, which was not something she had previously even thought to consider. There was not time to ask in the bank: the goblin teller exchanged the allowance Siger had sent to Emma for school supplies for magical currency in a matter of minutes after what Euros presumed was an exchange of formalities in the goblin language.

From the bank, they proceeded to the entryway of a small tailor shop, where they were met by a very blonde witch about the same age as Severus. Her bearing screamed entitlement and she looked at Euros with the sort of assessing gaze the younger witch normally associated with psychologists. Severus had invited her, it seemed, for he greeted her by thanking her for joining them.

She raised a perfectly arched brow. "Well, when you offered the first introduction to your new apprentice in exchange for supervising her outfitting, I could hardly say _no_. Though I was under the impression you loathed teaching children."

Severus snorted. "I do. Euros, meet Lady Narcissa Malfoy nee Black, unofficial leader of the Allied Dark Bloc within the Wizengamot. Narcissa, this is my apprentice, Euros Holmes."

There was a moment of awkward silence as Euros wondered which of them was supposed to speak next. Apparently it was her, though by the time she realized this, Lady Malfoy was saying, "Well met, Miss Holmes," and then, clearly addressing Severus again, "How is it that… a _muggleborn_ comes by a name like Euros?"

"I believe it is short for Europa," he answered smoothly. Euros was not surprised. Her full name had been on the contract they had signed, after all. "Surely you did not think that purebloods hold a monopoly on… unusual naming conventions."

"Of course not, but…" the woman flushed slightly.

"No," Severus said firmly. "I have not had the opportunity to confirm, but she is almost certainly muggleborn, and no kin to you."

Lady Malfoy's blush grew more prominent. "Of course not. Though the resemblance is uncanny."

"Believe me, Narcissa," the wizard said drily. "You have _no_ idea."

"Why would you think us kin, Lady Malfoy?" Euros asked curiously.

She hesitated before she answered. "You remind me of my sister."

Euros suspected a lie, though she couldn't say for certain whether it had been: she suspected the blonde was using Occlumency as Severus had demonstrated, to keep her thoughts to herself. Before Euros could enquire about the sister in an effort to verify the lie, Severus intervened. "Narcissa, if you are quite satisfied with your introduction, I would very much like to accomplish today's tasks before the Old Goat wonders where I've buggered off to and comes looking."

"Oh, very well, Severus. You owe me for this, though."

"Hardly," the wizard drawled. "You've no daughters of your own to shop for. If anything it is _I_ who am doing _you_ the favor, here."

Narcissa grinned. "Perhaps. Come, then, Miss Euros." She swept aside a curtain, revealing a fitting room which was occupied by another witch, this one a much older brunette, her hair streaked with grey. She switched to fluent French, apologizing for their tardiness, thanking the witch (Mme. Bouchard) for taking the appointment at such short notice, and introducing Euros as 'the one we discussed, in need of apprentice's robes, and, I think, a little bit of everything, no? I had not realized, but her wardrobe is sadly lacking, and it would not do to have the apprentice of any friend of mine reflect poorly on her Master's standing, after all. If you recall the styles Bella preferred in her youth, something to that effect would suit marvelously. All on my account, of course.'

Euros was stripped and measured efficiently, and over the hour that followed, dressed in a dozen different garments, from bloomers and blouses to shirts with puffed sleeves and heavy, swishy pantaloons, to tunics and full-length robes, cloaks and coats, all of them cut from finer fabric than even Siger's wardrobe. Once these were pinned appropriately to her form, she watched in amazement as the witch directed the construction of copies, scissors snipping through cloth in midair and needles dancing through the panels to create each garment.

The old Frenchwoman muttered the whole time about how this was a rush job, and the least of her art, but Narcissa brushed off her complaints with a smile. "There is hardly any point in enchanting children's clothes, Madame – they grow so quickly. But you know there is no one else I would trust to realize this," she handed over a sheet of parchment.

"Well, be _that_ as it may… Who is this friend of yours?" the seamstress asked, examining it closely.

Narcissa smirked. "Severus Snape."

The old woman cackled. "The Spy? Very well, then."

A black over-robe, trimmed with white, rose into the air, a bevy of needles threading themselves and preparing to dive into the fabric over the right breast. The Frenchwoman drew a second wand and began a sustained chant, moving it in intricate patterns as she directed the needles to embroider a symbol with the other. The whole shape began to glow with magic after nearly ten minutes, at which point the witch cut off her spells abruptly. The light faded to reveal a small circle of black silk surrounding a silvery-grey cauldron with three distinct plumes of greenish smoke rising out of it, the stitches so tiny as to be indistinguishable, if not for their color. As Euros watched, the flecks of green shifted, forming the illusion of a single emerald serpent coiling out of the cauldron, its head turned toward her before dissipating again into smoke.

Narcissa grinned and clapped delightedly. "It's perfect!"

Euros was obliged to try on all of the clothes again so that Narcissa could approve their fit as the seamstress repeated the process on two additional robes, and a patch which she could move from one garment to another. The blonde witch nattered on the entire time about proper accessorizing and shoes to accompany each outfit, and cast several spells on Euros' hair, whisking it up and out of the way.

When she was finally returned to the entryway where Snape was waiting, she was fully dressed in magical clothes: black pantaloons, a tightly fitted, sleeveless grey blouse, and an equally sleeveless black over-robe which closed only at the waist, the badge stuck in place with a spell. Her muggle sandals had been transfigured to resemble their magical equivalent.

Severus did a double-take, which caused Narcissa to laugh.

"I was going to ask what was taking so long to make up three apprentice's robes," he said snidely, "but this does rather explain. I _do_ hope you are not expecting me to pay for your little dress up party."

"Don't be ridiculous, Severus. You couldn't afford it. What do you think of your crest?"

He leaned down to inspect the small circle of embroidered silk, and almost immediately reared back with a quick intake of breath and the fiercest glare Euros had ever seen on anyone. "You must be joking, Narcissa." She shook her head, grinning again. "That's not funny."

"On the contrary, I think it's very funny. And also eminently suitable. You _are_ , after all, a potions master and the youngest Head of Slytherin in what? Five centuries?"

"And I suppose it's strictly coincidental that it bears such a resemblance to…" he broke off, rubbing at the skull and snake tattoo Euros had seen on his arm in hospital.

Narcissa laughed. "Perhaps not _strictly_."

" _Narcissa!_ You cannot… You _cannot_ take this particular girl and dress her like Bellatrix and put anything resembling _that_ symbol on her chest. It's just…"

"I did design the crest before I saw her, you realize? But I stand by it. They will all be thinking it anyway. _I_ thought it, and I _know_ that Bellatrix was never pregnant. You might as well use it."

"There are other factors of which you are not aware," the wizard bit out.

"Such as?" the lady drawled.

Severus hesitated, so Euros, bored with their debate, interrupted: "I believe the phrase he used was 'magically precocious, highly intelligent, dark-inclined natural Occlumens and Legilimens.'" Narcissa looked at her with unveiled astonishment.

"Keep that to yourself!" Severus snapped. Euros wasn't sure which of them he was addressing. It could have been both.

"And you're sure…?" the woman asked him, hesitant again.

"As sure as I can be without doing an actual inheritance test, Black," the wizard said waspishly.

"Malfoy," she corrected him absently, then shrugged. "I still stand by it. You're a brilliant, subtle man, Severus Snape, but you are not a politician. Ask yourself what Evans would have done."

Severus froze for a full five seconds before he ground out, "Evans was mad. And she had the charisma to pull that sort of thing off."

Narcissa hummed and nodded. "But she was also very, _very_ good at playing a crowd. And she would have told you what I'm telling you, which is that when you have no chance of convincing anyone of the truth, you really have no choice but to try to control the lies they will believe."

"And you would have them believe – what? That I of all people somehow managed to gain responsibility for _his_ daughter? _Their_ daughter?" the wizard scoffed. "You know Bellatrix hated me."

"But _most_ people know only that you are the highest ranking Death Eater to have been cleared of all charges, without claiming Imperius, of course."

"Of course," Severus interjected.

Narcissa smirked. "And for the record, she didn't _hate_ you. She didn't _trust_ you, but she considered you one of her best students. Theoretically, if I had to choose someone to teach her daughter, I could do worse."

There was a very tense pause, and then: "How far do you want to take this, Narcissa?"

The politician smiled mysteriously. It looked like a well-practiced expression. "I could not possibly confirm or deny what my sister got up to during the months I was at Hogwarts each year, but I would be lying if I said the prospect of a revitalization of the House of Black was unwelcome news." Severus raised an eyebrow, and the witch's smile transformed into a smirk. "Not that I'm proposing anything at the moment, but..."

"I… see," the wizard said slowly. "Matters of blood aside."

"The Eternal House has held mottos far older than ' _Tonjours Pur,'"_ the aristocrat answered evenly. " _Semper Meri Sint_ was never about blood." She twirled a lock of light hair around a finger in a way Euros was certain held some significance, for the girlish action did not suit her persona at all, but she could not fathom what that significance might be. "But as I said, I propose nothing at the moment. And as much as I would enjoy discussing the history of my house at greater length, I am expected at the Glass Octopus in a matter of minutes, so I fear I must cut our conversation short."

"As you will," Severus said with a short bow.

Narcissa nodded and presented Euros with the bag which, rather improbably, managed to hold the entirety of her new wardrobe, as well as the muggle clothing she had forgone in favor of her current attire. "Miss Euros," she said, flashing another well-practiced smile, "It has been a unique pleasure."

"Thank you, Lady Malfoy," Euros replied politely.

"Oh, I think Ms. Narcissa will be sufficient," the witch suggested, though her tone was uncompromising. "And do not hesitate to owl me at Malfoy Manor if you have any questions regarding Magical Britain. Severus is a veritable compendium of information, but our perspectives on society are… rather different."

Euros imagined that was more than a bit of an understatement. There was something indefinably working-class about Severus, despite his obvious education and what appeared to be an extensive knowledge of all levels of Magical British society. It came out in the way he handled money and his scornful tone when discussing the political structures of the nation, and even the fact that he had apparently refused to have his teeth fixed – Euros refused to believe it was impossible to do so with magic, given that most wizards seemed to have fairly well-maintained orthodontics. Narcissa, by contrast, was clearly an upper-class witch, born and raised. To apparently think nothing of outfitting Euros with a full wardrobe apparently on a whim spoke volumes, and that was without considering the fact that Severus had introduced her as a leading politician in the governing body of Magical Britain.

Severus was, she understood quite suddenly, an outsider in almost as many ways as Euros herself, while Narcissa was an insider, and a very successful one at that. He had doubtless asked her to see to Euros' outfitting as his apprentice because she was more likely to do it properly. If Euros wanted to fit in, she realized, the older witch would be a valuable source of information on the niceties of proper social interaction.

"Thank you, Ms. Narcissa," she answered automatically, and the witch left the small waiting room with another grin and a nod at Severus, who rolled his eyes after her. When he led Euros out the door a moment later, the blonde was already out of sight.

"So what was all that about?" the girl asked her Master quietly, following him toward a small side-street.

He cast a spell silently before answering. " _That_ was Narcissa embracing an idea with far more enthusiasm than I had anticipated."

"And what idea was that?"

Severus smirked. "Narcissa Black was the youngest sister of Bellatrix Black, the Dark Lord's… consort, I suppose is probably the best term."

Ah. That was the piece of information she had been missing. She reviewed the conversation, slotting it into place: Narcissa must have thought Euros was the daughter of her sister and the Dark Lord. And though Severus had told her it wasn't true, she was obviously not entirely certain, especially when informed that Euros shared certain other qualities with the Dark Lord, as Severus had told her the week before. Nor did she seem opposed to encouraging that impression in others. In fact, unless Euros was very much mistaken, the politician had actually floated the idea of claiming Euros as a scion of her natal house, provided she met some unspoken qualification. What that was and exactly why she might propose such a thing, the young witch had no idea, but… Had Severus predicted that? No. That had to have been what he meant by 'more enthusiasm than anticipated.' But that meant he _had_ expected some degree of negotiation, or perhaps advice on how to respond to the fact that others were bound to reach the same conclusion.

"What is the significance of _Tonjours Pur_ and _Semper Miri Sint_?" she asked.

The wizard snorted. "The former, the current motto of the House of Black, is a corruption of the latter idea. It is now most often interpreted as meaning 'always pure of blood,' however, according to one of Narcissa's late cousins, _Semper Miri Sint_ was originally ' _Semper Meri Sint Tenebrarum,'_ referring to the magic of the house and their devotion to the Dark Powers. The House of Black fell with the Dark Lord. I believe it would be safe to interpret her reaction to mean that regardless of the truth of the matter, if the Dark were to rally around the supposed child of Black and de Mort, she would endorse the legitimacy of said child, up to and including arranging a covert adoption into the House of Black. I had forgotten how utterly ridiculous Blacks can be about the wellbeing of their House." At Euros' confused expression he added, "There are no remaining potential heirs of House Black outside of Azkaban. It seems Narcissa is somewhat more desperate to ensure the survival of the name of the House than I had expected. It would be most irregular to adopt a muggleborn child to continue the line, though I have no doubt that there is some precedent in their history. And Narcissa is more tolerant of muggleborns than many of her family."

"Who is Evans? Did you all go to school together?" she asked, wondering how two such different people had ever come into contact with each other, let alone developed the sort of relationship where they asked each other for favors years later.

"Evans… Evans is – _was_ – Lily. And yes, we did go to school together. Narcissa was the year ahead of Lily and myself, in Slytherin. I would not call her a friend, but a strong and dependable ally, certainly. Come."

Before she could ask another question to try to clarify the question of how their alliance had begun, or why the witch was apparently open to the idea of adopting a muggleborn to continue her family line, the wizard turned sharply, leading her to the doorway of a small shop. There was no sign to identify its purpose or owner, which seemed to be the norm on the side-street they had taken off the main Alley. The street itself was more poorly maintained than Diagon, and the people who moved from shop to shop did so quickly, most of them wearing dark cloaks with hoods up. Few shopfronts displayed their wares, and most of them looked closed, including the one where Severus knocked impatiently.


	32. Nineteen Years Before Summary

All of this will probably become very clear, very quickly, but this is the one where canon!Ginny (or, erm… _my_ version of canon!Ginny, as featured in  Endings, Dear Tom, and That Which Does Not Kill Us) falls victim to a combination of spells during the final battle, after Harry is resurrected, but before he reveals himself to the crowd. She gets sent to the Past, firmly believing that Harry is dead and Tom won in her own universe. She really, really wants to see Tom dead, and Fate and Dumbledore intervene to place her right in the hands of the most likely person to make that happen: Lily Evans, the Order of the Phoenix's most ruthless Healer.

After they convince Ginny that the cost of sending her home will be too high to reasonably pay, she tells Lily and Pandora Sage Willow (Luna's mum) all about Tom and her own war, and the three of them conspire to end Voldemort in 1980.

Out of all the things I've ever written, this is the only one that I've ever started with a final pairing in mind. Ginny/Sirius. I just really think that after their respective experiences in their wars and childhoods, they'd be a good match. Plus they have that whole 'in love with a Potter' thing in common. And there's the added irony of Sirius settling down with a pureblood and being re-inherited by Arcturus in the end, even though neither Ginny nor Sirius care about that sort of bullshit.


	33. NYB1: The Battle of Hogwarts

It was stupid, a stupid thing to think about, when she was setting shields and returning curses with all the fury she could muster, but Ginny Weasley couldn't stop seeing the look on her mother's face, shouting that she was only sixteen, underage, shouldn't be fighting.

For one thing, her birthday was literally _weeks_ away – it hardly mattered. For another, what did they think she had been doing since September, trapped in this joke of a school? She hadn't told them the details, but they weren't stupid. They had to know that she hadn't been bowing to the Death Eaters in charge without a fight. She had been so angry with her parents when they hadn't let her come back after Easter. Relieved, too, because she was – had been – so horribly, fundamentally exhausted, and disgusted with herself for being relieved, but mostly she was furious – so much so that her father had eventually allowed her to go stay with the twins, instead of at Aunt Muriel's with him and her mum.

She had kept her temper, refusing to fall into the now-familiar pattern of that argument, and tearfully put forth the only part of the truth that had the slightest chance of changing her mother's mind: She couldn't stand by while all her family fought and maybe died. They would have none of it, not even Harry, and he _knew_ what she was capable of, after the DA.

She would have left if necessary, and snuck back in to help, regardless of what they thought, but she could have kissed Lupin for suggesting they not send her away, that she be allowed to stay in the Room. Not that she _would_ stay, her father's glare notwithstanding. She just had to wait until everyone else had finished using the tunnel to the Hog's Head, and she'd be free to join the fight. It wasn't like they could afford to leave anyone behind to babysit her.

She watched reluctantly as everyone, even _Percy_ , marched off to the fight, then made herself busy with the slow trickle of people still making their way into the school, relaying everything she knew about the situation again and again, before sending them off to find the most defensible positions they could. She helped organize the evacuation when Filch escorted what looked like most of the school up to the Room, and had just been about to leave when first Tonks, then Madam Longbottom clambered through the passage.

Harry, Hermione, and her brother had stumbled down the stairs that led to the school half a minute later, armed with basilisk fangs and wild-eyed looks of determination. She didn't question them when they demanded she leave. She had a very good idea what they were on about – what they had been doing all year, despite their efforts to keep it a secret.

No one had ever really asked what it was like to be possessed by Tom Fucking Riddle. She didn't remember much of it, when he had used her to summon the Basilisk, but the last time, when the two of them had teetered on the border of life and death, bound together as tightly as one person, well… That was a different thing entirely. She was fairly certain that you couldn't pour your mind and soul into someone else without risking the chance of sharing more than you wanted, and after nearly five years of sorting through the jumbled mess of second-hand memories and knowledge left to her when that connection was interrupted, she knew more than she ever _wanted_ to know about horcruxes and the mad experiments Riddle had done with them.

She didn't know _everything_ , she was certain, and out of the five she knew he had created (the diary, his grandfather's ring, his mother's locket, the Chalice of Hufflepuff and the Diadem of Ravenclaw), she was fairly certain none of them were in any of the places he had considered leaving them and discussed with the Diary years after it was created. She had checked (carefully, of course – she didn't want to get caught by the Death Eaters _or_ by anyone who might think it a bad thing that she was attempting to hunt down bits of Voldemort, following hints a teenage version of him had left in her head years before), the summer after fourth year, when she had been trying to figure out if any of it was real, and there had been nothing.

Wool's Orphanage, for example, didn't even exist anymore, and according to Bill, Tom Riddle hadn't ever opened a Gringott's account, under his real name or any number of possible aliases. There was no hint of Dark Magic at the London Public Library or at Buckingham Palace when she'd got Fred and George to check, luring her then-seventeen brothers into the project with a story about a famous treasure of Morgana, stolen and hidden away in muggle hands. The scepter that went with the Crown Jewels, _did_ have a powerful dark spell on it, to compel the loyalty of the muggle Nobility to their sovereign, but there was no sign of a horcrux at the Tower, either. She had briefly thought that he had managed to get one into the Department of Mysteries, and wanted it back, during the year that followed, but it turned out all that was over a stupid _prophecy_.

She had spent much of fifth year, when she knew Harry was having private meetings with the Headmaster, agonizing over whether she ought to take her suspicions to the grandfatherly old wizard, but knowing as she did how he had treated the young Riddle, she had, in the end, decided against it. (Though if she had realized that Harry hadn't known what the horcruxes _were_ that he had been searching for all year, she might have reconsidered, or at least told _him_.) Not because she felt anything like pity for Riddle – he had been cruel and sadistic long before he met Dumbledore – but because she feared that if the Headmaster knew how she had been tainted by his diary, she would be carted off to St. Mungo's or something, in an effort to neutralize whatever small part of him had attached itself to her. She was certain (now) that the memories were only that, but she didn't want to take the chance that she would be shut up with mind healers, or worse, that Riddle (Voldemort) would find out somehow that she knew more about him than practically anyone, and have her killed like Bode.

Not to mention she hadn't wanted her _family_ to find out about, well… any of it. They still thought of her as their innocent little girl, and she was sure that it would be easier to let them think that, than to try to explain that the innocent little girl she used to be had died years before.

It was literally unthinkable, at this point, to explain to her parents, to her brothers, even to her friends, the extent of the lies of omission she had told them over the years, and how and why. She especially couldn't tell Harry. He would see it as a betrayal, she knew, her hiding this connection to his greatest enemy, his parents' murderer. So she had resolved never to tell them.

Not telling her parents things, especially things that would only make them worry, when they couldn't help, had become such a habit that she hadn't even been able to bring herself to tell them the full extent of what was happening at school, about the Resistance and why she needed to go back. They didn't know how the Death Eaters had tried to break her, wear her down to nothing.

They didn't know how she had spent months fomenting unrest and organizing demonstrations of unruliness and a thousand little pranks and bits of mischief to express the students' displeasure. They didn't know about the strain and stress of keeping the youngest students safe and endless spans of days without sleep, in detention from the moment class ended until it started again, and the scorn of her peers when the whole school was given only bread and water suppers for weeks at a time, their ire directed at her by the Carrows. They didn't know about the endless, increasingly severe individual punishments, taken as a matter of course – almost a matter of pride.

She had been their Phoenix, their symbol, according to Luna: the one who went down in flames, loud and bright and impossible to ignore, over and over, to show the rest of the school what they were fighting for; to show them it was _possible_ to fight and lose and not give up.

She was the one who had blown up the Muggle Studies classroom and taught her fellow sixth-years shield charms when they were supposed to be practicing curses in Dark Arts lessons. She was the one who had stood on the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall and dared their so-called professors to _crucio_ _her_ , instead of some big-mouthed second-year Ravenclaw, pissing himself in fear.

When they did, she had spat blood in their faces and dared them to do it again.

Her parents didn't know the details, but they could see the toll it had been taking on her. Out of the three of them leading the Opposition, the remnants of the DA, she was the one who had been the most visible, taken the most damage. It had been bad enough that they had kept her home after the Easter holiday. Her mother had cried when she saw Ginny's too-thin, haggard face, when she had winced at her overenthusiastic embrace.

Seeing her mother cry for her had been a worse torture than anything the Death Eaters had devised for her.

She knew that it would kill her mother if she died, that it would kill her that she couldn't protect her baby girl, but her baby girl was long dead, anyway.

Molly Weasley's baby girl, the girl who had been in love with a boy who had never existed (the real Harry Potter was so much more and so much less than the hero she had grown up believing in); who had been a poor, tomboy firstie, overwhelmed by Hogwarts and her less-than-perfect homelife and the disdain of her new peers; who had latched on to the only sympathetic voice in her life, shared all her secrets with him, let him take over her body and steal her life, truly had died in the Chamber of Secrets. She had rotted away over the months that followed, when there had been no help, no healing, only blame and self-loathing, and useless, too-little too-late familial concern.

The girl who went into the Chamber would not have recognized the girl who had emerged, the one who desperately maintained a façade of careless Weasley confidence hiding a festering core of hatred and terror and bone-deep knowledge that she had been tainted by evil, transformed into a monster hiding behind a child's face, infected by dreams of a boy in an orphanage, seducing her to sympathize with the creature who had turned her.

The girl who had emerged had nearly been eaten alive by guilt and obsession. She had spent nearly two years burning away every weakness she could find in herself, in her quest to ensure that she could never, _ever_ be hurt or used like that again. She had tried to be _good_ , tried to be the person she pretended to be, tried to avoid following Tom Riddle's path, even as she re-made herself in his image, borrowing his charm and cunning as she slowly recovered her reputation from the blows it had suffered that first year, and turning his cold objectivity on her own experiences as she worked through the trauma he had dealt her.

The naïve _child_ who had so-innocently welcomed evil into her soul was most certainly not the same young witch who had joined the student Army in her fourth year, resolving to fight and to live her life to the fullest, despite all the horror she had already suffered and her self-loathing and doubt; who had taught herself Occlumency with a few hints from her eldest brother, an illegal book, and a boggart to practice against; who objected fiercely when Luna Lovegood said they needed a martyr and looked to her, but stood up to defend a little first-year Gryffindor from their 'teachers' only a day later.

 _That_ girl, the one she had spent years re-building from the ground up, couldn't _not_ fight.

There were lots of reasons. For her family, as she'd told her parents. For the Light. Because the Dark could not be allowed to overtake Magical Britain. Because there must be balance. For the muggles and muggleborns and the poor first-year students who had been traumatized over the course of this year. For Neville and Luna and all of the students, really, who had been dragged into a war that had been going on well before they were born. For Harry, who had been hunted his entire life. Because Voldemort was a monster who deserved to die for the pain he had already caused and to stop him from causing any more for the whole country and everyone she knew and loved. For everyone who had died in the first war, and everyone who had died in this one. But mostly she had to fight for herself.

She _had_ to be there, when he finally fell. She had to see the monster _he_ had become finally come to an _end_ – otherwise she was certain she would never quite believe he was gone.

These thoughts had chased each other endlessly through her mind, preoccupying her as she waited for the room to clear, but they melted away as soon as Harry had said that they needed her to leave. They had faded away into the background as she had run toward the fight, without even a pause for good luck or farewell. She left the Room of Requirement and sprinted down the nearest stair, headed toward the sounds of battle.

She wanted to fight, wanted to help – and now she was in the thick of things. Spells flying, the school falling to pieces all around her, blood and pain and people dying everywhere she looked.

She cast and cast and cast again: piercing hexes and bludgeoning jinxes; cutting curses and conjured lances of fire (fire had always been her element). After the year she had had, with her life on the line, there was no chance of her fucking around with bat bogies and body binds.

She ran and dodged, shielded. Hid. And then leapt out of hiding to curse some more, sending a bludgeoning jinx at a Death Eater who had just taken aim at Fleur (how childish her dislike of her sister-in-law seemed, now, in hindsight…), and deflecting his retaliatory strikes until he was hit by a stray killing curse, cast from down the corridor.

The only thought in her head, aside from the look on her mother's face, telling her that she was too young to fight, was that all of this, this battle, was so much _bigger_ than the fight at the Ministry, or the little fight the year before, when Dumbledore had died.

She had thought they were at war before, the last eight months (minus Christmas and the last two weeks, trapped at home and unable to help).

Now she realized that was only a cold state of stand-off.

It couldn't have been a real war, because if it had been, then she had no word for _this_.

It was pure chaos: there were no sides or fronts, but dozens of impromptu, one-on-one (or one-on-two or two-on-three) fights constantly circling, shifting and interrupting each other, the participants engaging and disengaging in ways the DA hadn't anticipated, hadn't trained for. Ambushes struck out of nowhere, with seventh-years, and a few of her fellow sixth-years, as well, using their knowledge of the castle to their advantage. Even the useless professors like Trelawney and Babbling were on the field, doing whatever they could to add to the madness.

Young faces, both students and unmasked Death Eaters, were running scared, both toward the fighting and away from it. She sneered at the cowards who ran away. She was terrified, too, but the fact that it was all so much bigger and more overwhelming than they had expected was no reason to turn their backs on it. Others, the hardened, older warriors, who had survived the last war, hunted their enemies down and incapacitated them with brutal efficiency. She knew they were thinking of the people they had lost, the last time around, and how important it was to make this stand, today, _final_. Magical Britain would never survive another ten-year war.

She channeled anger and fear into the darkest slicing curse she knew, hamstringing a masked madman who had cornered a pair of seventh-year Ravenclaws, pinning them down behind their own shields. He fell down a staircase and didn't get up.

She pressed on.

She needed to get to the center of things. That was where _Riddle_ was bound to be.

But he wasn't.

When she finally made her way to the heart of the fighting, it was only Death Eaters – the Lestranges and the other Azkaban escapees in the thick of it – and the defenders beating them back from Madam Pomfrey's makeshift infirmary in the Great Hall. Her father grabbed her and shoved her behind the line, through the doors, into relative safety, with a grim look that said they would be discussing her decision to leave the Room later, if they both survived. Momentarily lost, with no Death Eaters to curse, she spotted Lavender Brown, from the year above her, and Colin Creevey lying too-still on the floor, and then something that made her blood run cold – her family's distinctive red hair, being levitated through a side-door.

She walked closer, as though in a trance. Both ears. Fred. It was Fred. She fell to her knees beside his body, overcome with shock. She couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't – how could this be possible? And then there was someone – she couldn't put a name to the brown hair and grey eyes of the older Hufflepuff who was pulling her away, dragging her to assist the living, instructing her to cast first-aid charms on the physically-injured, freeing the better healers to deal with lingering curses.

She did as she was told, the spells almost automatic after months of dealing with the effects of the Carrows' 'teaching,' losing herself in the work until she heard Voldemort's voice, a high-pitched mockery of what had once been Riddle's smooth tenor, announcing from everywhere and nowhere his intentions to give them an hour to hand over Harry. Then there were others, more skilled than herself, there to assist, pushing her away, and she found herself kneeling with her family again, watching helplessly as her mother threw herself on Fred's body, and her father reached out to her, tears falling un-hindered from his own cheeks. George was lost. Completely and utterly lost. Hermione hugged her, but she hardly felt it.

Ginny didn't know how long they knelt there, but suddenly, she felt as though she could not bear to be there a second longer, staring at the body that was no longer her brother, and her family, unable to cope with his so-sudden loss. She had to do something – had to act. She rose robotically and ignored the others' attempts to pull her back, walking out of the Great Hall, and then out of the Entry Hall. She found Neville, and joined him in examining the fallen for any trace of life, ferrying those who had a chance back to the Hall, and casting the Mercy Spell on the rest. She found one of her roommates, Janine, who had been so horrible to her since her very first year, too far gone to save, and held her hand and lied to her as she crossed beyond the Veil, promising that she would be okay, that the fighting was over.

It was for her, at least.

She had been at the front of the crowd when Hagrid brought Harry's body back from the woods, herded along by the Death Eaters, felt something break within her, even as she heard her own voice shrieking his name. It wasn't only that she loved him – because she still did, even if she doubted whether they had ever had a chance, as a couple. He had been their best hope – the Chosen One. She drew her wand, readying herself to throw everything she had at the monster standing before them, to prove that they would not, even now, give in to him, but Neville beat her to it, charging forward.

She watched in horror as he was forced under the Sorting Hat, and it was set alight, and then astonishment as he pulled from its depths the Sword of Gryffindor, and hacked through the neck of the thrice-cursed snake, Nagini. The fight resumed at once, the defenders attacking with a new level of reckless desperation. Even if they were doomed, they, like she, would not bow quietly before the victorious murderer.

Surrender was _never_ an option.

She had told herself that every night since she got off the train in September. She had promised herself when she returned to the occupied Castle that she would die before she bowed her head again to _Riddle_ , _especially_ by fucking proxy, and she had renewed that vow as she had marched through the tunnel from the Hog's Head. She would keep it, if it was, as it very well might be, the last thing she did.

She threw herself into the heart of the battle as it resumed, running with Luna to Hermione's aid – the older girl was fighting like a demon, like Ginny hadn't known she was able, maddened with grief, battling Bellatrix, but she was clearly out-matched. Even the three of them together were out-matched.

She ducked under a Cruciatus, and then stepped aside to avoid an incoming Killing Curse from the battle off to her right, calculating the trajectory of the spell as instinctively as she did the movement of a Quaffle or a Snitch.

She spared half a thought hoping that someone else could conjure a solid shield to catch it, but dismissed the threat – it would pass her by, if only by inches – concentrating on the pattern of _pierce, fire, cut, bludgeon, pierce_ , fast and faster, each movement and trailing syllable leading naturally into the next. She only partially registered a high-pitched shout of _"GINNY!"_ as someone else's spell collided with the bright green curse, combining and deflecting directly at her, too close to dodge.

It hurt – oh _God_ , it hurt! Like being splinched everywhere and dying all at once, as though her body and her soul were tearing themselves apart as the world blinked out and re-formed around her.

She fell to the ground. Someone was screaming: a shrill, tortured sound. The rest of the battle had gone curiously quiet, and oh, wait, that was her. She closed her mouth, breathing too-fast through her nose as she tried to handle the pain, tried to think through it. Someone cast… _something_ on her, some spell dragging her out of consciousness.

As the pain became a distant thing, she hoped, desperately, that she would wake up again.

For all her determination to die fighting rather than live in a world ruled by Tom Fucking Riddle, she hadn't quite believed she would – not until this very second. She somehow hadn't quite _believed_ , even after they told her Harry was dead, that they would lose, that she would _actually_ die.

She didn't want it to end like this.


	34. NYB2: 1979

She did.

Wake up, that was.

Slowly.

Painfully.

To the sound of an older, male voice, somewhat strained.

"She just appeared in the Great Hall, looking like she'd been through a battle. She had her wand, but it is not registered, I'm afraid, and there was nothing identifiable on her. Madam Pomfrey managed to patch her together, but she will need time to recover her strength."

"Why not take her to St. Mungo's?" a young, female voice objected. "You know I'm not fully qualified, yet, sir! It's one thing to patch up aurors and Order members, but –"

"Miss Evans, if there was any other way… Certain sixth and seventh-years were already expressing an interest in our mysterious visitor's origins, you see. It was of paramount importance to remove her to safety at once. She hasn't even regained consciousness – I could hardly leave her defenseless at St. Mungo's or unattended at one of the other Safehouses."

"What about the Waypoint? They have proper healers there!"

"And if it turns out that she is _not_ sympathetic to the cause?"

The woman – Evans – grumbled a bit, too quietly for Ginny to hear. The old man waited patiently. Eventually Evans bit out, " _Fine_." Then she shouted, "Oi, Becca! Make up a room – long term patient!"

"Okay!" was the strangely echoing reply.

"Very gracious of you, my dear," the old man said. "Now, if you will excuse me, I've other matters to attend to this morning…"

"Of course, sir," the woman answered, and then added, a few seconds later: "He's gone. You can stop pretending to be asleep, now."

Ginny groaned, and pried an eye open. She was lying on an examination table, in a large, dark, open space – possibly a warehouse. There was a light above her, and she could just make out the witch in the shadows that surrounded it. The stranger, Evans, was holding her at wandpoint. She wore healer's robes, cut for ease of movement, but not the lime green of St. Mungo's. With her face hidden in the dark, she looked very intimidating.

"Who are you, and how did you get into Hogwarts?" she asked coldly.

"Huh?" Ginny attempted to feign stupidity. It wasn't that hard, considering she had no idea what was going on.

"Don't give me that shite," the witch glared, her eyes beginning to glow a disturbing, Killing Curse green, and her wand-tip white with an un-cast spell. "Dumbledore's left you in my care, and I _know_ you were awake when he said _he_ didn't know what side you're on, so you have ten seconds to convince me you're not going to kill anyone in their sleep or betray this safehouse to old Snakeface."

"Or else what?" Ginny spat, fumbling for her wand. It was missing, but she still wasn't about to be intimidated, Order of the Phoenix member or not.

"Or else you'll find out _exactly_ why Healers are required to take an Oath of Nonmalfeasance!" Evans stepped forward, threateningly, into the light.

The younger girl felt herself blanch at the sight of auburn hair, and too-familiar green eyes. "You're Lily Potter," she said, faintly. The young witch – only two or three years older than Ginny – looked _exactly_ like the statue in Godric's Hollow, except for the full-life color and the distinct differences in expression. The statue was a bit beatific, and the witch before her was decidedly _not_.

"It's Evans! And I _know_ who _I_ am! Who the hell are you?"

She was pretty sure that the witch wasn't lying. It was something in her sheer indignance about the name. It was in _that_ moment that the fact that Potter – Evans – had casually mentioned Dumbledore as well, fully registered. _He_ had been the old, male voice, earlier. He wasn't dead, and neither were the Potters. But if _that_ was true, it meant that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong in that last battle. Ginny's confidence faltered. "Ginny – Ginevra Weasley. I – I'm on your side – Dumbledore's side! The Order of the Phoenix."

Lily Evans' suspicious glare didn't lessen. If anything, it intensified, with an added hint of confusion. "You're far too young to be an Order fighter. Who are you, really? And how did you get into Hogwarts?"

"I – I'm not a fighter. Not really. My parents are members – Arthur and Molly. I was a student – but I am on your side, I swear!"

"And Hogwarts? I won't ask again!"

"I don't _know_! I was fighting Bellatrix, and then there was a Killing Curse, and someone deflected it, and it combined with _whatever_ it was, and hit me even though I should've been clear, and then everything blinked out and – I don't _know_!" she repeated herself helplessly.

The older witch lowered her wand, summoning a stool for herself out of the gloom. "Fuck."

"You – you believe me?"

"Veritor's charm. Lets me see if patients are telling me the truth about symptoms."

"I could be an occlumens."

"You could be, but you're not occluding. I _know_ what _that_ looks like, and you're far too agitated. But Arthur and Molly Weasley aren't _that_ much older than me, and you knew about my engagement, even though we've been keeping it quiet, and I'd _know_ if you had been at Hogwarts with me… which suggests that either you aren't the person you believe you are or…" she trailed off pensively.

"Time travel," Ginny said abruptly.

There were _horror stories_ about time travel, especially when it was going wrong, where the hero (victim) got lost in alternate time-streams, or re-made the universe by ruining the continuity of things that ought to have happened. Fred and George ( _Try not to think about Fred._ ) used to try to scare her with highly embellished versions of the Emmet Brown story, and when she was about eight, she'd had more than one nightmare where she accidentally erased herself and her brothers from existence thanks to Percy telling her about Eloise Mintumble. The very first rule of time travel was to not draw attention to yourself, not to tell people you were a time traveler – that was what always started the horrible chain reaction of events in those stories. But if Lily Evans was only a couple years older than she was, she had to have somehow fallen back in time, and she didn't know nearly enough to get home, and it would be awfully hard to get help if she couldn't even tell people what the problem was.

Evans raised a skeptical eyebrow, then said, "It's 1979. The third of May, 1979."

Panic rose up as Ginny's suspicion was confirmed, threatening to close over her head, until the older witch cast some sort of calming charm on her. Apparently Evans felt that her reaction was sufficient confirmation of the situation.

"Guess that explains how you knew I'm engaged to Potter. And about the Order… yeah, I suppose it fits," she mused, then said lightly, her whole demeanor changing in an instant, from suspicious to businesslike: "Let's start over. You're in an Order of the Phoenix Safehouse, Safehouse Four. My name is Lily Evans. I'm a trainee healer. I'm in charge of this safehouse, which is staffed by Pandora Sage-Willow, another healer, as well as two muggleborn refugees, Jessie and Becca. They live here, with me. Jess is studying healing, and Becca helps out as she can. You'll be staying with us until Dumbledore tells us otherwise, I suppose. Dora went home to sleep, but she'll be back this afternoon. We mostly deal with emergency overflow from St. Mungo's and Order Aurors working outside their purview on special assignment, and a bit of… research, on the side."

"I – I'm Ginny Weasley," she stuttered slightly. "I… I don't know how much I should say…" she trailed off, shaking despite the calming spell.

Evans grinned. "Tell you what – when Dora gets in, we'll work out what's up with the timeline, and let you know, eh?"

"Y-you can do that? How?"

The witch shrugged, a knowing look in her ( _Harry's_ ) eyes. ( _Don't think about Harry, either._ ) "I have my ways," she said, in obvious imitation of Dumbledore. And then she smirked. "Bit of scrying on Dora's part, and I'll ask the Infernal Power if that doesn't work."

"The… Infernal Power? You're…" Shock must be setting in again, because she could have _sworn_ that _Lily Potter_ , famed for her maternal sacrifice and pure _lightness,_ had just implied that she was a Black witch.

"Still one of the good guys, or so they tell me," she winked.

"Um… right…"

"Here," the older witch said, handing Ginny her wand.

"You trust me?"

"Sure. Would you rather I didn't?" Evans' grin was blindingly sincere.

"Well no, but… you're at war! And you've hardly _met_ me!"

Evans just shrugged. "I'm an _excellent_ judge of character. Now, let's get you settled in. Hey, Becca! Jess! Come meet your new roomie! And hit the lights!" she shouted, then explained: "We put a sensor-limitation on the light-triggers so we could re-use the same key-words for different enchantments. If I call from here, it'll just turn _this_ light off." She gestured to the orb suspended above Ginny.

Ginny didn't care about the lights. She tuned out Evans' rambling. Fred and Harry and God knew who else were dead, and she had fallen back in time, so most of her family wasn't even _born_ yet, and she was still in a war – she had _far_ more important things to worry about. Her breathing felt too fast, and her hands were _still_ shaking.

The enchantments in question came slowly to life as a pair of teenagers made their way out of a partitioned-off area into the main warehouse.

"This is Rebecca Schaefer and Jessie Jamieson." Plain, mousy Rebecca was only a little shorter than Evans, but Ginny would have put her at about fourteen. Jessie was a tall, broad-shouldered black boy who looked closer to her own age.

"Guys, this is Ginevra Weasley, she'll be staying with us… indefinitely," Evans shrugged.

The younger girl grinned. "Hey! Nice to meet you, Ginevra. Call me Becca."

"Ginny, or Gin," Ginny said, out of habit. Why her mum couldn't have just called her 'Guinevere,' properly, she would never know.

"Welcome to the Four-Oh-Seven-Seven, Gin," Jessie said, waving at her and then hiding a yawn behind the same hand. "What's on for today, boss-lady?" he asked, turning to the witch who was clearly in charge.

"It's Thursday."

The boy groaned. "I _hate_ brewing!"

The girl elbowed him in the ribs. "I'll do it if you want to take care of Moody and Bones."

"No, Becca, you need to take stock of the inventory before Dora gets back. Start with general stores and potions – McKinnon and Black raided the store-room last night to re-supply Two, so we need to see what needs to be replaced. And then ingredients, taking into account the brewing we'll need to do today."

The girl looked briefly disappointed, but then said, hopefully, "Does that mean _you're_ taking care of the old wanker?"

"Yeah, I'll look after him until Dora comes in, and then I'll help with the re-stock for a bit." Jessie, who had looked even more put out at the notion that their stores had been depleted, nodded gratefully at the eldest witch. "But you know I have that meeting with the goblins this afternoon," she continued, and his frown returned.

"Oh, thank God," the younger girl sighed, then waved at Ginny before wandering back toward the doorway they had come from. Jessie followed her with a quick, "See you later."

"Hey, Beck – what room?" Lily – somehow it was easier to think of her as 'Lily' after seeing her interact with the younger kids – called after her.

"The one across from the kitchen!" she yelled back.

Lily levitated Ginny to a small, private room otherwise reminiscent of the Hogwarts Hospital Wing, chattering about the file Madam Pomfrey had sent on her various injuries and the treatment programme she would have to undergo, most of it to make up for the systematic physical and magical torture, and deprivation of both food and sleep she had suffered over the months she'd been at school.

Ginny couldn't concentrate on her words, so she largely ignored them, her mind locked in a panic-spiral, kept in check only by the knowledge that she couldn't immediately do _anything_ to fix this. There was nothing for her to do but wait until this 'Dora' arrived. The healer gave her a series of foul-tasting potions to swallow, then cast a sleeping charm on her. She left as Ginny's eyelids began to grow heavy, promising to wake her when they knew more about exactly how much she ought to be able to tell them.

xXx

Ginny woke again, to light humming, occasionally interrupted by female voices whispering. For half a second, she thought she was back in her dorm, with Sam and Elaine, who always chatted quietly as they readied themselves for class, before the rest of the room rose. For a brief, shining moment, she imagined that the whole of her sixth year had been a particularly awful dream. Then she opened her eyes.

"Mrs. Lovegood?" Luna's mother was impossible to mistake for anyone else. She had prematurely silver hair, even now, and silvery eyes, too, as though all the color had been washed out of her. It was hard to say how much older she was than Lily, between the hair and the fact that she gave off an air of serene wisdom to rival Dumbledore at his best. She couldn't have been more than twenty, though, if Ginny remembered the timeline correctly.

Her laugh was exactly like Luna's. "So Xeno and I _do_ get married? I'll be sure to tell him yes when he finally proposes," she grinned. "Pandora Sage-Willow. A pleasure to meet you, little time traveler."

Ginny flushed and introduced herself, struggling to sit up. The silver-haired witch transfigured the bed around her, supporting her efforts, and Ginny gave her a grateful smile.

Lily took over the conversation with a bright, "Okay!" and a quiet clap of her hands. "So here's where things stand, as well as we can figure: You travelled back in time to a point in the direct past of your own timeline. Everything from the beginning of time, until now, is the same for all of us. The timeline we're in now is slowly diverging from your own simply by virtue of your being here, us using resources on you and so on, instead of doing what we would have done if you'd never showed up, but if we send you back soon enough, before you manage to create too many ripples, it will heal itself over. We can all swear each other to secrecy, or something, and minimize the effect, so instead of actually branching and having different long-term effects, the two time streams rejoin each other and continue on as one.

"The trick is, it takes a _lot_ of power to send someone through time, and I don't think we have a great chance of replicating and exactly reversing the exact accident that brought you here – there were traces of two different curses on you. One was the killing curse, obviously, and my best guess is that the other was a curse meant to seal you in a pocket universe, outside of time. Since the killing curse breaks bonds between the soul and the body, and that sort of time/space spell alters your relationship to the rest of the universe… weird shite happened. I _might_ be able to narrow down the actual spells used, or replicate the effect directly with enough time, but we're talking literally years, and then we'd need to find someone to actually reify the counter-curse, and, well, Sev's out of the question anymore, and –"

"Lily Irene, you're rambling," Pandora interrupted her.

"Erm… sorry. Right. So the next best option to get you home is to put together a ritual. But part of the reason it would take so much power to send you back when it only took two battle-castable curses to send you here, is that the Powers likely want you to be here, or some of them, at least. Otherwise you'd've just died, I'm pretty sure. Because the likelihood of an accident like that having _these particular effects_ is about nil. Depending on which Powers were responsible for you washing up in our timeline, the costs of finding your way back to the proper place in time and then actually _moving_ you there, are likely to be steeper than any of us are willing to pay."

"What kind of price are we talking about?" Ginny asked, hardly believing that she was even considering using ritual magic to get home. There was a reason ritual magic was all but forbidden in Magical Britain. It was _dangerous_. But it was also _powerful,_ and she couldn't not _try_ , could she?

Lily shrugged. "Your ability to see or hear, your capacity for love, the ability to have children or do magic, anywhere from days to years of your life… it depends on the Power, really. And then some of the rituals have _different_ costs if you decide to sacrifice someone else, instead of something of yours. But if this is running counter to the designs of one or more of them, it's going to be something steep, no matter what. I don't know of any rituals specifically designed to take you forward in time. We, Dora and I, could probably pull something together, but again, it will take time, and the longer you're here, the larger the offshoot-bud of the new universe grows, and the more difficult it will be to send you back to your proper time _line_ , and not just to your proper _time_ , thus the higher the cost will be."

"So it's impossible, then?" she asked angrily. The only alternative to anger was crying in frustration, and she was trying to hold it together in front of the older witches.

"Nothing is impossible, Ginevra," Pandora said soothingly. "But the longer you are here, the more difficult the choice will be to return, and you will be here for some time, regardless."

"What about – what about the Department of Mysteries? Or Dumbledore? They have to know _something_! There has to be a way!"

"They… might, but…" Lily said rather reluctantly, then hesitated.

"But?" Ginny prodded her.

"But involving more people," ("Especially important, influential people," Lily inserted.) "Will inevitably widen the gulf between the universes more quickly, Ginevra. It would, again, take time to determine who might be able to assist in returning you without involving so many people that the costs of their involvement are not greater than the benefits they would provide."

" _And_ in order to do that arithmancy, you would have to tell me a _lot_ more about the future, which very well might change things, too, because we're at war, and I'm not at all sure that I would be able to stop that knowledge from affecting the way I act and react to things, which could change the trajectory of this timeline in a major way. The only person I know who _might_ be able to do that is on the other side, now, and he was always pants at arithmancy, anyway."

"So… we can't tell anyone else?" Ginny was struggling. She had some vague knowledge of how rituals worked from Riddle's memories, but not enough to keep up with the others. It wasn't exactly the sort of thing that was taught to schoolchildren, and most books on ritual magic were banned, so she didn't have the theoretical knowledge to fill in the blanks behind the memories. How Lily, and apparently Pandora, too, knew anything about them was something she dearly wanted to know, but it was a question for another time.

The other redhead shrugged again. "It's probably best if we don't, assuming you want to go home. If you decide to stay here, I guess it will depend on who you are and what you know. I mean, if you really are on our side, I assume you'll want to help us kill the Dark Wanker. I imagine there's all sorts of considerations about who to give information to, balancing effectiveness against changing the future too much and altering the timeline so that your information is out of date, you know, and if word gets back to the Bugger Boys that you're from the future, you'll be a bigger target than the Prewett twins."

"Oh my God, Uncle Fabian and Uncle Gideon – they're still alive!" she said without thinking, then realized she probably shouldn't have. "Fuck! Pretend you didn't hear that!"

Lily laughed, and Pandora gave her a sad smile. "It is no secret that most of us are likely to die before this war is over, Ginevra," the older witch said.

Ginny nodded, but her mind was whirling. She should at least _try_ to go back, no matter the cost. She knew she should. It would kill her family to lose both her and Fred. But it really did sound as if that cost would be something she didn't think she could live with giving up. If she managed it, she wouldn't necessarily be the same person they had lost, anyway. And it would take time to figure out what the cost would be, and she didn't know if she could stand not telling anyone anything important in the meanwhile, to keep from diverging the timeline too much.

On the other hand, if she stayed here, she could help them. She could finish the war for real, ten years early, and maybe save a few lives in the process. Fred wouldn't die in battle, and Harry – Harry wouldn't either, because she would make sure that everyone knew about the horcruxes. Even if Lily and James Potter had to die to take out Voldemort, she would make sure he was finished in the ten years that followed. She couldn't be Ginny Weasley, anymore, closer in age to her parents than her brothers or her future self, wouldn't be Harry's friend or girlfriend or whatever they were, but they could be happy, here, in this universe. That might make up for the suffering her death or disappearance or whatever would cause in her own world, even if they never knew.

And she could crush Tom Riddle like a bug beneath her heel, once and for all, which might make it up to _her._

Lily and Pandora were bickering over something when she nodded decisively – or rather, Lily was bickering, and Pandora was calmly refuting whatever points she was making. She cleared her throat, and they turned to her as one. Lily raised an expectant eyebrow, and Pandora smiled knowingly.

"I'll stay."

Pandora squeezed her hand warmly, and said, "I'm sorry," before she left, which nearly brought Ginny to tears again.

Lily grinned, a faintly predatory expression, but all she said was, "You should eat, and rest. I'll have one of the kids bring you a tray, and come check on you in a few hours."

xXx

It was almost too easy to get used to life in 1979. Ginny spent the first week or so on bedrest, dutifully drinking healing potion after ridiculously disgusting healing potion, sitting still as variously uncomfortable charms were cast, and sleeping. It seemed as though she had not slept at all for the past year, given how her body craved unconsciousness, now.

She dreamed of Fred and Harry, of her parents and all the secrets she had kept from everyone over the years, and spent many of her waking hours alternating between trying to come to terms with the loss of her life, and trying not to think about it. She cried, silently, to herself, more than she ever had before in her life, and then hated herself for wallowing in self-pity when there was nothing she could do about anything.

No one pressed her for the details of her story.

From the occasional dropped comment or hastily changed subject, she suspected Lily had threatened Becca and Jessie in order to keep them from asking too many questions about their 'long-term patient.' Even the older witches had refrained from asking her about the future, aside from Lily's rather blasé comment that unless she knew something that they needed to act on immediately, the future could wait at least a few days. (From the look she had given Pandora when she said it, Ginny suspected that the silver-haired witch had somehow threatened her friend in turn.)

Instead of talking about herself and her own war, Ginny spent a great deal of time reading "recent" back-issues of the Quibbler and the Prophet to get her bearings, and working out the details of her cover-story. This she dutifully repeated to Dumbledore when he came to visit, still on bedrest. Lily had been thrilled that Ginny already knew Occlumency, and Ginny had been disappointed, but not surprised, when Dumbledore attempted to legilimize her immediately upon their introduction. She had repelled the probe, of course, but it had solidified her determination not to reveal her true story to him, and done nothing to allay his suspicions of her, though Pandora had managed to mollify him with a few subtle implications of mental trauma, consistent with her story.

Ginny told him that her name was Jennifer Catherine Williams – Jenny was close enough to her true name that it wouldn't matter if anyone miss-spoke in front of him (or anyone else who wasn't in the know). She was a muggleborn, seventeen, with British ex-pat parents who had taken her to France nearly ten years prior. They had been warned by an Obliviator who came to cover up a bout of accidental magic that the situation in Magical Britain was looking grim for muggleborns and their families.

She knew enough about Beauxbatons and Magical France (Frankia) thanks to Fleur's constant reminiscing about her own school days that she was fairly confident she could bluff her way through a conversation with most British wizards on the subject. Her sister-in-law had also taught her a bit of French (rather involuntarily) over the summer (which now seemed like a lifetime ago), and corrected her (mocking) accent until it was 'good enough for an Eenglish witch, I suppose.' It had been infuriating at the time, but she was grateful now. Since 'Jenny' had British parents who spoke English at home, she doubted anyone would question it.

Jenny had run away from home and 'returned' to Magical Britain when she turned seventeen because she felt it was her duty as an English Muggleborn to fight against the Thief Lord. (Riddle's French pseudonym had always amused Fleur, because she thought it silly that a Dark Lord would name himself a petty thief, an idea which Ginny had taken wholesale for Jenny's character. She personally, knowing what she did of how he had actually managed to evade death, found it a lot less funny.)

Jenny's parents disagreed with that belief, and thought that she ought to stay in France, where it was safe, but she had come back anyway, and there was little chance that she could return to them now without putting them in grave danger. She hadn't quite realized the extent of the situation, and fell into an ambush almost immediately on reaching London – a trap that sent her to Hogwarts and seriously injured her in the process. As far as she and the Healers could 'tell,' it was some sort of attempt to bypass the school's anti-apparition wards. They 'suspected' that it would be considered unsuccessful, since she was so damaged by being pulled through them that she had been hospitalized at once. Any Death Eaters making a similar attempt would doubtless suffer the same fate.

After they had fended off Dumbledore's initial questions, they had used a lightening potion on her hair, until it was barely strawberry-blonde, rather than the distinctive Weasley-red (her orange hair had always been her least-favorite feature, anyway), and used an illusion to hide the Prewett chin, making her face seem just a _bit_ more pointed, and her mouth slightly smaller, "to throw off anyone who managed to capture a pensieve memory of her initial appearance." The real reason, of course, was to hide her true identity from her still-living relatives or members of the other Sacred Twenty-Eight, who _would_ recognize her most distinctive family features. Dumbledore, who wasn't a blood-obsessed idiot himself and wasn't looking for a Weasley-Prewett child, did not seem to be unduly suspicious.

She had steeled herself against reacting the first time she saw one of her parents or uncles, but it hardly mattered: the first time she saw any of them, they were in no state to notice how a misplaced French teenager was reacting to their presence. In fact, she was fairly certain that even Jessie and Becca, who _knew_ she wasn't really muggleborn, thought she was only a bit woozy at the sight of all the blood: her Uncles Fabian and Gideon, along with several other Order fighters, were brought in suffering from a 'slight altercation' with a pack of Death Eaters, out on a raid.

The Corpse Munchers had apparently decided that it was more important to take out two of the Order's highest-profile warriors instead of attacking an innocent muggleborn's parents, which had suited the Prewett twins down to the ground. There had been a 'bit of a scuffle,' with no serious casualties on the Order's side, though they were all rather worse for the wear. The twins had flirted shamelessly with Lily as she patched them up and checked for lingering curses – at least until Marlene McKinnon showed up to fuss over them. They tried cracking jokes as she lectured them about getting themselves hurt, and made it clear that she should see the other guys, but Ginny was certain she overheard the blonde auror telling the wizards that she would be sleeping at James and Sirius' flat until her lovers pulled their heads out of their collective arsehole.

Her uncles' personalities reminded Ginny of Fred and George, and they had the same stockiness, though their shared face looked more like Percy's. It had been all she could do not to break down in tears as she was nearly overwhelmed by memories of her older brothers, until the fact that they were apparently in a triadic relationship registered. At that point, she blushed furiously – for all she might joke about Fred and George being 'inseparable,' that wasn't the sort of thing decent people _did_ – and got caught up in wondering whether her mother knew, and how _she_ had taken the news if she did.

Thankfully, she hadn't yet had to see her parents. According to Pandora, neither of them were actively fighting, with five children at home, and she was therefore unlikely to run into them at the Healers' safehouse. Their role came down, mostly, to Arthur passing information he gathered at the Ministry, and Molly guarding the Burrow as another safehouse. They were slowly helping muggleborns out of the country, hiding them with the ghoul in the attic if anyone outside the Order stopped by, but it was best they had as little contact with the rest of the Order as possible, for the sake of their cover.

She _had_ met most of the younger set of Auror Order members, as they filtered through in the days after she was finally allowed out of bed. The most common visitors were James Potter and Sirius Black, which was, perhaps, not surprising.

James _looked_ an awful lot like Harry, but his confident swagger reminded her more of Draco Malfoy, and his hyper-seriousness when it came to being Lord Potter reminded her of Edwin Grey or Ernest Macmillan. After talking to him for less than half an hour, the resemblance between father and son had started to fade into the background. He and Lily were, indeed, engaged, and planning their wedding for Midsummer, less than a month and a half away.

Sirius accompanied his best friend everywhere, even though he was obviously unhappy about the whole situation, and had nothing constructive to add to their wedding discussions. He didn't seem to like Lily very much at all. He flirted as shamelessly with Ginny as he did with Pandora and Jessie (who never seemed to notice, which was funny in and of itself) and amused Becca with tales of daring fights and Hogwarts pranks, but unless James was right there, Lily was only ever offered cutting quips and cool glares. James didn't seem to notice. Lily must have done, but she never said anything.

Ginny found him fascinating, not only for the strange dynamic between the trio, but also because he was both so similar to and so different from the Sirius she had known at Grimmauld Place. Out of all the people she had met here, he was the only one she clearly remembered from her own time. Most of them had been killed before she was born, and even Pandora, who had survived the war, had died in an accident before she left for Hogwarts. Unfortunately, she had the impression that he didn't quite trust her, even if he did like her. Rather the opposite of Lily, whom he obviously trusted, despite clearly antagonizing her at every opportunity. She caught him giving her suspicious looks out of the corner of her eye, and he pressed just a little more than any of the others when it came to her cover story. She wished she could just tell him the truth, but one of the things he had in common with his older self was an air of barely-contained, impulsive recklessness, and she couldn't be sure of what he would do or say if she did.

He might, for example, tell James, who would almost certainly tell Dumbledore.

It hadn't taken very long for Ginny to realize that the Healers – Lily and Pandora – didn't particularly like the Headmaster. He stopped by once a week or so to check up on them, which they found very annoying, and they didn't entirely trust him. Pandora gave her a vague answer about free thought when she asked why, and Lily had given her a cynical grin and called him an old hypocrite who wouldn't hesitate to abuse his power over his students if it suited him, but refused to elaborate.

The Potters, on the other hand, had long been allied with the Headmaster, and James had been raised to respect him without question. He was one of Dumbledore's favorites, and would doubtless think that the best course of action, if he knew that they had a potential source of information on how the war would go, would be to tell the Headmaster.

That, Ginny had decided, lying in her bed that first week and trying to decide what she should say about the future, and to whom, would be a Bad Thing. Her own feelings regarding the Headmaster were complex. She could sympathize with James' perspective. Until she had reached Hogwarts and been tainted by Riddle's diary, she would never have _dreamed_ of not trusting him. He had been kind enough afterward, but not terribly supportive, more concerned with keeping the details of the Chamber of Secrets incident under wraps than with the mental well-being of her twelve-year-old self. He had, effectively, swept the whole thing under a rug, and left her to deal with the aftermath on her own.

After she had achieved some degree of competency with Occlumency, she had realized that he used legilimency on the students all the time, which was just _wrong_ , and she knew that he had to have done it to Riddle the first time they met. She couldn't help but wonder whether Riddle would have become Voldemort if Dumbledore hadn't been so antagonistic toward him from the start. She hated him with an undying passion, but even she had to admit that Dumbledore hadn't exactly treated him fairly, based on his actions. He _was_ a horrible, cold, sadistic child, but Dumbledore only knew that because of the legilimency.

Even if she could excuse _those_ things, she didn't think she could excuse the fact that he had apparently sent Harry, along with Ron and Hermione, to hunt for Horcruxes without even knowing _what_ the objects were, let alone _where_ they were. And even if she did tell him about the future, she still didn't think she could trust him enough to explain what she knew about Tom Riddle, and how – for the same reasons she had mistrusted him before. If anything, it was even _more_ suspicious that a time-traveler would just happen to have that knowledge. And that was the important part of all this, really: she had to find the horcruxes and destroy them – find some way to make Riddle stay dead.

She had, eventually, decided to tell the Healers everything, so they could help her think of who else should be told what. She simply didn't know enough about these people and the details of their war to figure it out herself.


	35. NYB3: The Story (Part 1)

On the fifteenth of May, the thirteenth night Ginny had been in 1979, Safehouse Four was quiet. There were no overnight patients except for Ginny herself, and everything was, for the moment, stocked up. Pandora had come over for dinner, and was keeping an eye on things and teaching the three younger teens how to identify and (theoretically) neutralize cursed wounds. It was a very interesting lecture – one which Ginny couldn't help but feel she could have used about a year before. Lily was out, finishing up a twelve-hour shift at St. Mungo's. She was still working on her Healer's Apprenticeship. The shift ran late, as they tended to do, but the trainee healer in question arrived back shortly after eight, and Jess and Becca took this as their cue to wander off, debating the best way to actually try to test their understanding of the theory.

"Do you think I should tell them that they should just curse each other?" Lily asked, with a wry smile, catching part of their conversation as they walked away.

"Certainly not," Pandora chided. "Not everyone is as ruthlessly practical as you and Severus Snape, Lily Irene."

She smirked. "It builds character."

Pandora raised a very unimpressed eyebrow at her friend's snark. "We both know that you do not actually consider yourself to be a good role model for young wizards," she pointed out. Lily shrugged, and Pandora continued: "In any case, I suspect that there will be more than enough un-critically wounded for them to practice on in the days to come."

"Do you know something I don't?" Ginny asked the silver-haired witch, though most of her attention was on Lily. She was growing warier of the future Mrs. Potter with every passing day. She was incredibly driven and efficient in a way that reminded Ginny a bit of Hermione, but there were certain things that seemed… _off_ about her, like the way her whole personality could shift on a knut, depending on who else was in the room, or the little details like this, dropped in passing. And who actually learned healing by intentionally casting curses on themselves and their friends? It would be effective, yes, but it was _insanely_ reckless. What if you couldn't work out the counter in time? The overall effect was somewhat disturbing. It was safe to say that the real Lily Evans bore little resemblance to the woman Ginny had grown up hearing stories about.

"Many things, Ginevra Phyllis," the elder witch answered lightly, before adding, more seriously, "but if you mean regarding our future patients, no. It is simply the balance of probability, given our usual work-load here. This has been a quiet week."

That was saying a lot, because this was the first time since Ginny had decided to just tell the Healers everything that they had had an evening 'off.' Normally there were potions to be brewed, spells to be practiced, lectures to hear, research to be done, supplies to be inventoried or distributed or mysteriously 'acquired', food to make, rooms to clean… the list of chores was endless, and unlike at Grimmauld Place, Ginny was certain the Healers weren't just coming up with tasks to keep the three younger residents busy.

They had had at least one 'uncritically injured' patient to heal every night since she had arrived, and more seriously wounded, overnight patients twice. Just a few hours before, Marlene McKinnon and her partner had stopped by for a curse-check. It wouldn't do for them to show up at the Aurory trailing dark magic from an unauthorized Order mission. Even now, Jess and Becca were off somewhere debating how to practice counter-curses. It seemed that Lily's fierce obsessiveness and Pandora's serene relentlessness had rubbed off on them despite their youth in the form of a bone deep determination to be useful, to contribute. Or maybe that was just the fact that they were muggleborn, and therefore targets in this war – a much more vicious, open struggle than the one she had known in her home time, at least according to the papers.

"You're thinking something," Lily noted, plonking a bowl of stew on the table across from them, and kicking her feet up on a spare chair. "What's up?"

"You were friends with _Severus Snape_ ," Ginny said, after taking a moment to reign in her wandering thoughts. Thinking on the murderous headmaster made her scowl, but at least it was pertinent to the topic she needed to discuss with the Healers – her knowledge of the future, and how best to use it.

The redhead actually laughed, though her eyes were not amused. "You know him? Glad to know he survived then. Yeah, we grew up together, but, well… we had to choose sides, and the Death Eaters weren't about to let him go, and I couldn't really justify signing up to help with xenocide, especially when I was in the target population, so yeah. We haven't talked in a while. But you were thinking something before that. What was it?"

She _had_ been deliberately waiting to talk to them, but she hadn't expected either of them to come out so blatantly and ask. She took a deep breath. "I've been thinking about what you said, about how I should think about what I know, and decide who to tell," she explained, looking from one to another. Pandora nodded, looking at her too-intently. Lily absent-mindedly slurped at her spoon, but nodded as well. "And, well, the thing is, I don't really know _who_ to tell, or how much. So, um… if you have the time, I was thinking you both might swear yourselves to secrecy, and then I could tell you everything, and we can all decide what needs to be done."

"Of course, Ginevra Phyllis," Pandora nodded, drawing her wand fluidly. Ginny was slightly taken aback: she had expected them to need to think about it before making any sort of vow – especially Pandora, who was by far the less impulsive of the two. "I, Pandora Sage-Willow, do hereby swear, upon my tongue, that I shall not speak nor write nor intentionally communicate in any way without her permission whatsoever Ginevra Phyllis Weasley communicates to me in confidence. Upon my hands, I shall not act intentionally on any such information without her permission, unless I am given to know it from some other source, and upon my honor, I shall not willingly betray her trusted secrets. Three times three I so swear, before Magic and the moon, so mote it be."

A silver spark appeared at the tip of her wand, and split into two, flowing through the air to alight at the crown of Ginny's head as well as Pandora's. She nodded her acceptance, and could feel it sinking into her magic, identifying her as the one who set the permission which was conditional in the vow. Lily repeated it, with somewhat more conventional language, though the intent seemed similar. Then she cast a silent series of privacy charms around them, concealing their conversation from anyone who might overhear, and Ginny, frantically trying to remember the proper response when someone offered a vow of secrecy, told them that the rest of their conversation should be considered 'confidential,' and that they had her permission to discuss any of it with each other and anyone who already knew, just in case that mattered.

"Go on, fill us in," Lily grinned, still working on her dinner.

It was more difficult to get started than she had expected. "I – well… My first year at Hogwarts, I was given a diary… No. That's not right. Back in 1981… No, that's still to come, anyway… Okay. Further back, then. In the summer of 1937, a boy named Tom Riddle got his Hogwarts letter."

"Tom Riddle?" Lily asked, curiously. "Tom _Marvolo_ Riddle?"

Ginny nodded. "Why? How do you know…?"

"It's not important, I'll tell you later. Finish your story first."

"Okay… So Tom Riddle wasn't a very happy kid. He lived in a run-down muggle orphanage in a bad part of London, and there was a muggle war going on, and no one had much money anywhere, or good food, or nice clothes or anything. He also wasn't a very nice kid. Like, at all. We're talking the kind of kid that looks up to gang leaders and doesn't just kick puppies but cuts them apart to see how they work, and likes to watch other kids suffer." Lily made a sort of funny face, but she didn't say anything, so Ginny went on. "He knew he had magic. He didn't know what it was called, but he was already using it intentionally, mostly to hurt people, because he could."

"Hmmm," Pandora hummed, then added, at Ginny's raised eyebrow: "Most muggleborn wizards don't learn to control their magic at all before age eleven."

"Really?" Lily sounded surprised. "I think I was like, six, maybe, the earliest time I remember using magic."

"It's not unheard-of for a child to be taught so young," her friend explained. "I would wager Sirius Orion had a wand at age seven. But it is unusual for a child to have such control so early, especially _without_ a wand, and doubly-so with no example to follow."

Ginny shrugged, and nodded. She had borrowed her older brothers' wands to practice with before she went to school, but as far as she could remember, only the twins had had any control over their accidental magic, and that might have been because they only wanted to cause chaos and mischief.

"Huh. Okay. Sorry – go on."

"Right, where was I? Riddle had had pretty good control of his magic for a few years, at least, and that helped him hold his own against the older, bigger kids at the orphanage. By the time he was eleven, they mostly left him alone, or else. His only friends were snakes. He could talk to them, you see."

The older witches' eyes widened. Lily choked on her stew.

"M. de Mort?" Pandora asked to confirm, casting a silent _anapeo_ on her fellow Healer.

Ginny nodded gravely.

"That fucker is Tom Riddle?" Lily repeated, astonished.

Ginny nodded again, then demonstrated the anagram for them just as Riddle had once demonstrated it for Harry. _TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE_ shifted to _I AM LORD VOLDEMORT_ in glowing red letters.

To her immense surprise, and apparently Pandora's as well, Lily began to laugh hysterically. "Oh, Merlin – don't you guys see it? This is hilarious. _Jessie was right_. This is almost _better_ than _Tromedlov_. It's the same principle. I bet he even got it from the same place – muggle orphanage, jeez…"

Ginny didn't get it. "Erm… Lily?"

"It's okay. It's fine. Muggle joke," she took a deep breath, and arranged her features in a mask of sobriety. "Okay, I'm over it. Go on."

"But –"

"Later."

"Fine! Stop interrupting, then," she snapped. Lily snorted with suppressed laughter, but nodded. "Okay, so we have this eleven-year-old future Dark Lord getting his letter from Dumbledore, because he was the deputy headmaster back then. And Dumbledore _legilimizes_ him, and realizes what a terrible person he is already, but Riddle doesn't know what he's doing. He's a natural legilimens himself, if I didn't say, but he doesn't remember a time when he _didn't_ know what people around him were thinking and feeling, so he doesn't know it's not something that everyone has to deal with, at that point, and he already just totally ignored all of their emotions because he just _didn't get_ most of them, except anger and fear, but really, that was most of what they were feeling anyway… those early memories are really weird."

"Memories?" Pandora asked, but Lily talked over her.

"Oh, come on! Don't tell me these things! You're going to make me feel sorry for the poor kid!" she complained, apparently incapable of not interrupting.

"You… feel _sorry_ … _Why_? He was a little psychopath!"

"That doesn't mean that he didn't have a shitty childhood, and there are legitimate _curses_ that emulate uncontrolled legilimency. They drive the victim mad slowly, making them lose their sense of self. And getting legilimized has to be about the worst welcome to Magical Britain _ever_. Seriously. I mean, I'm not going to go easy on him. He's a terrible person _now_ , but he _was_ just a kid."

"Lily Irene…" Pandora interrupted.

"Fine! I'll _try_ to stop interrupting. Carry on."

Ginny waited a second, both trying to recall where she had been, and to ensure that Lily was not planning to continue _defending child-Voldemort_. That was definitely being added to the list of suspiciously _dark_ things she had heard the older witch say over the past week. "Okay. So Riddle knew that Dumbledore didn't like him, and he knew that he had misstepped, even if he didn't know how, but Dumbledore was _repulsed_ by him, and there was maybe a little fear in there as well. He wanted to go to Hogwarts, wanted to be a wizard, get out of the orphanage forever. So he backpedaled, which made Dumbledore trust him even less. But you know, whatever. It was too late anyway. That set the tone for his Hogwarts years.

"He had most of the teachers wrapped around his little finger, but he was sorted into Slytherin as a muggle-raised orphan, and he ended up threatening his classmates like he had the other orphans. But they knew more magic than he did, so he got them to lay off by making a snake bite Scorpius Malfoy. Which got him in Thea Malfoy's good books, surprisingly. A few years later, after he opened the Chamber of Secrets, openly claimed the title Heir of Slytherin and proved himself to be devastatingly good at magic, she invited him to theirs for Christmas, and introduced him to Abraxas, their older brother."

"I'm sure she thought he would be a useful pawn," Lily smirked.

"Probably," Ginny agreed. "But he wasn't really the pawn _type_. What he really wanted was to get enough power that he could do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, and nobody could stop him or tell him what to do." Lily didn't react to this, but the look Pandora shot at her made Ginny think that it was another thing she might have agreed with. She continued without pause: "And he also wanted to live forever. The summer after his third year, the muggles were bombing London, and he had to go back anyway, so he decided that he was going to find a way to protect himself from dying. Ever. It took him a while to figure out, but he eventually found a ritual that could do it. It had a few holes in it, but he was cocky and clever and charming, and he patched it together and enchanted a diary, and then… do either of you know what a horcrux is?"

Pandora shook her head, but Lily's jaw dropped. "Seriously? No one actually _makes horcruxes_!"

"What is a horcrux?"

Lily explained before Ginny could. "It's a soul anchor. Black Arts, destructive, mostly. It calls for a human sacrifice, but you know how Destruction isn't that picky. Any power source on par with a human life would do if there's a bit of ruin involved in gathering it. And then there's a lot of enchanting to prepare the vessel. A nasty power-transfer, and it's got to be yours. It's pretty cool arithmancy. I have a copy of the breakdown somewhere. But the point is, you make this anchor so your soul can't move on from this plane. If your body is killed, you can re-possess it as a lich, or if it's destroyed, you get sucked into the horcrux, and then you can be re-embodied through any number of different processes, depending on how willing you are to pervert the natural order of things."

"The horcrux is _splitting your soul_ ," Ginny said with a glare. "It doesn't get much more perverted than that."

"Depends on how you think of the soul, doesn't it? It's worse in my books to actually _create unnatural life_ than it is to simply prolong the inevitable." The redhead grinned, shooting a significant look at Pandora, who glared at her, but didn't explain.

"So you don't think it's wrong, to make a horcrux?" Ginny asked, shocked.

Lily squirmed uncomfortably in her chair. She didn't look guilty, but more as though she knew she ought to, pinned beneath both Ginny's and Pandora's sharp stares. "No. Yes. Maybe? I mean, I know _other_ people think it's wrong, but it's your own soul, so I kind of think you should be able to do whatever you want with it, and there are ways to do the ritual without a human sacrifice, or you could even use a Death Eater, if you wanted. It doesn't have to be an _innocent_ life.

"I do think it's _stupid_ , though. You can get trapped in a book or a necklace or something basically forever, if your plan to get reincarnated fails. Or turn yourself into a lich and get enslaved by a necromancer. Or get kissed by a dementor. Or if someone who knows what they're doing with soul magic gets ahold of your horcrux, they have basically the best conductor of sympathetic magic possible and can wreak all sorts of havoc on the other half of your soul _and_ your body. They're conceptually really cool, and maybe a good safety net, but they're not exactly fool-proof. Not to mention they're supposedly awfully painful to make, and if you screw it up, your whole soul could be destroyed, not just broken, and you have to give up some of your magic to the vessel to make it work properly."

Ginny nodded absently, but she was stuck on that last option. "Theoretically… if someone made more than _one_ horcrux, and we had one of them, could you use it to destroy all of them at once?" she asked slowly.

Pandora raised an eyebrow at her. "How many are there?"

Before she could answer, Lily jumped in. "Really? Are you _shitting_ me? He made _more than one_?"

"Five," Ginny deadpanned.

"Dark Powers! That is just… _monumentally_ stupid! I mean, more insurance, great. But you have to _give up_ some of your magic every time you make one. You don't get that back! If you wanted them to even have a _chance_ of working to possess someone to reincarnate you, you'd end up with like, a _tiny_ fraction of your original power. No. There's no way. I've fought him, and there's _no_ way he once had even _twice_ as much magical strength as he has now. Even if he used some sort of ritual augmentation to beef up his reserves between horcruxes. Nope. Don't buy it."

"He did it. I don't know _how_ exactly, but he changed the ritual. Maybe he didn't give up any more magic after the first one, or not as much?"

Lily looked doubtful. "But then only the first one would have full functionality. The others would just be like… oh, no – I take it back. That's actually really clever."

"What is?" Pandora asked.

"The other four anchors would still function as anchors, but they wouldn't necessarily have enough power or intelligence to possess someone and re-incarnate themselves. Only the first could do that. But that's _good_ , because he wouldn't want younger versions of himself possibly being found or ensnaring someone and possessing them and finding a way to reincarnate _before_ he died. I mean, ideally, the re-united soul and the original life-spark would be re-embodied together, but there _are_ other ways to do it, theoretically. Nasty, messy theory, from what I recall – it's not like I actually made a study of this shite – but I'm _sure_ he would have known enough to piece together the details. If I were him, I'd be worried about a horcrux escaping and deciding that _he_ was the _real_ Tom Riddle."

"That – that can _happen_?" Ginny asked, both shocked and appalled to get a relatively reasonable explanation of a question that had been bothering her for ages. She didn't have _all_ of Riddle's memories, and she definitely didn't have the theory background to fill in the blanks behind some of his decisions. It was definitely disturbing that Lily _did_ , but it gave her a slim hope that they might be able to find and destroy the things.

The older witch shrugged. "Sure. I don't see why not."

"I am still interested in the answer to Ginevra Phyllis' question," Pandora volunteered. "Is it possible to use one horcrux to destroy all of the others at once?"

Lily hummed speculatively. "Possibly? Maybe? But I kind of suspect that he's taken measures against anything I can think of in like, the next five minutes. There's not much point in making more than one if they can all be destroyed at once. Honestly, if we want to make sure we get them all, we'll probably have to use one to track down the others and then destroy or un-make them individually."

"Are you seriously telling me that there's a way to use one horcrux to find the others?"

"Well, yeah," Lily rolled her eyes. "I mean, unless something goes really _fantastically_ wrong."

"Does that mean that the Wanker would know if we were to start picking them off?"

"Dunno. I'd have to make one to find out. Or more realistically, more than one. There wasn't a lot written about what a split soul _feels like_ , other than painful, and I expect that if you still have one, you might not be able to sense all of them." Pandora gave her a _look_ , and she added, " _Sorry_ , but I just got off-shift and I'm just way too tired to censor myself!" with a pout. "So what are they?"

Ginny sighed. "A diary, from when he was sixteen, though he continued to share memories with it and write in it for about five years after that, while he went through the process of making the others. Then he hid them. I _might_ know where two of them are. None of the others ended up where he considered putting them. The second one was a Gaunt family heirloom, a ring. Third and fourth were a Slytherin heirloom locket and the Chalice of Hufflepuff. And the last was the Diadem of Ravenclaw. The diadem is at Hogwarts, in the Room of Requirement, I think. And the diary was given to me when I was eleven by Lucius Malfoy."

A moment of silence greeted this statement. Then Lily grinned. "I need to talk to some people, but I think that should be _more_ than do-able."

"Lily Irene…"

"Seriously, Dora – it'll be fine. I'll even run the plan past you first, if you want. Both of you, even. But it's going to happen. We can't just let this knowledge go to waste."

Ginny yawned hugely, interrupting their developing debate. Pandora took the opportunity to break up their little party for the evening.


	36. NYB4: The Story (Part 2)

"No," Pandora said firmly, on hearing Lily's initial plan to acquire the First Horcrux, two days later. Her prediction had, rather unfortunately, come to pass, and the Healers had been far too busy the previous evening to further discuss the future, or Ginny's knowledge of their own time period. "It's far too reckless, and besides, there may be more important details yet to be revealed."

"But –"

"What guarantee have you that the Skeeter woman would not turn on you in an instant? Or that Lady Malfoy would agree to a proper parley? Or that her sister would not hear tell of the arrangement?"

"Rita still owes me for tipping her off over her big break, and Narcissa… we once had a fairly good working relationship, you know."

"Seven years ago. The world has changed, ever so slightly, since then, in case you have somehow failed to notice. No. And that's final."

"I could do it anyway," the redhead said sullenly. "I don't need your permission."

"But you do need Ginevra's and you trust my judgement more than your own, and we both know it," the serene witch said dismissively. "Now, if you please, I believe we had made it to the 1940s, or thereabouts, before the tale was diverted with talk of Black rituals and soul magic?"

"Um…" Ginny was still stuck on the fact that Lily Evans had known that evil cow, Narcissa Malfoy, well enough to be on first-name terms (was Mrs. Malfoy secretly a muggleborn sympathizer? Impossible!) and that she was, apparently, one of the reasons Rita Skeeter had become a household name in Magical Britain over the course of Ginny's lifetime.

The ill-connected witch sighed. "Yes, fine, I suppose. Go on with it. You'd just said that Riddle decided in his third year to make a horcrux. Or five. Bloody madman."

The time-traveler snorted. "Uh, yeah. He is. Okay. So he made his first horcrux in 1943, when he was sixteen, with a diary and the death of a girl named Myrtle, Moaning Myrtle who haunts the second-floor lav at Hogwarts – that's where the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets is, by the way."

Lily failed to hide a grin, and Ginny paused long enough for her to say, "Bet he loved that."

"It did irk him just a tad," she agreed lightly. "The second one was made in 1944, the summer before his last year at Hogwarts, with his father's death and the Gaunt family ring. He had _issues_ with his father, you could say."

" _Ironic_ ," the green-eyed healer muttered, but declined to answer Ginny's inquiring look with an explanation, so she went on.

"Riddle tried to apply for the Defense post at Hogwarts, but was told he wasn't old enough, so he took a rather menial job that allowed him to focus on his extra-curricular Dark Arts studies. He came across Slytherin's Locket and the Chalice of Hufflepuff in 1947 and immediately decided that they would become additional horcruxes. After they were made, he decided it was time to leave Britain: his immediate immortality was assured, and he wanted to look into eternal youth before he got too old. Since he would be travelling anyway, he decided that he would make finding the Lost Diadem of Ravenclaw a priority. He had gotten the story of where it was hidden out of the Grey Lady while he was still in school, and he was already thinking that it would make a good horcrux back then. It turns out he did manage it, because that's what Harry was looking for, on – on that last night," she explained, her voice cracking slightly.

She had gathered that much from overheard snippets of conversation between terrified, evacuating Ravenclaws. He had gone to their common room, demanded to know what artifacts she might have left behind, _crucio'd_ the male Carrow for spitting at McGonagall… and now he was _dead_ , along with Fred and Colin and so many others. They had come _so close_ to defeating the monster, and yet…

She quashed her grief as well as she could. This was no time for sniveling over a future she was going to change anyway! Pandora passed her a handkerchief, which she set aside and studiously ignored. Lily went from looking vaguely uncomfortable to smirking slightly, as though she knew Ginny saw the square of transfigured linen as a hopeless indicator of weakness. The youngest of the trio glared at her. She knew _nothing_ of what Ginny had gone through! Anger drove back the pain enough to continue.

"The Diadem is hidden at Hogwarts, in the Room of Requirement, somehow, I think," she said, her voice distant and hollow. "I don't know what happened after that, because he left the diary behind, hidden, when he began to travel, and did not update it. I know… from bits of history and stories I've pieced together, I'm pretty sure, he came back to Britain in the 1950s, and started the Death Eaters by the 1960s. You'd know more than I would, about that," she nodded to Pandora.

The silver-eyed witch nodded. "They grew more powerful over the course of my childhood, whispers and bogey men. But they were not a widely-recognized problem until 1970, when they attacked the Ministry Christmas Ball, and then the Aurory attacked the Bacchanalia the following spring, and raids began to escalate. Auror 'protection' at the Festa Morgana in 1973 started a riot, and since then M. de Mort and the Lady Blackheart have been more or less in a state of open war with Dumbledore and Crouch. Not that the latter pair are nearly so well coordinated."

Lily sniggered. "I don't think old Barty swings that way, Dora. _Young_ Barty, now… They're _together_ ," she explained to the time-traveler. "Riddle and Black. Have been for ages. Sev used to give Sirius all kinds of shite about it."

"Lily Irene, is this _really_ the time?"

The smirking witch sighed. "Imagine, humor to lighten the mood in the face of horror. Clearly my fiancé has been a terrible influence on me. Go on, Ginny."

"O…kay. So the way the books teach it, there were nine major battles of the first war. The First Battle in '78; the Battle of Artemis, Golem Downs, and the Diagon Alley Massacre in '79; Denbigh Moor, Wolf Moon, and the Slaughter of the Innocents in '80; and Firefall and the Last Battle in '81." She counted them off on her fingers. "You, um… I imagine you know more about the first three than I do." Lily had gone hard-faced at the mention of those battles, and there were lines of tension in Pandora's serene mask. "And, well, to be honest, I don't know all that much about the details of any of them. I know that the Light won at Diagon and St. Mungo's, but the history books left out exactly _how_ , and my parents never liked to talk about the war."

"And the Dark won the other four?" Lily asked, rather outraged.

Ginny nodded. "But then, in 1981, something happened. See, there was this prophecy made, about a child who would be the one to defeat the Dark Lord. I don't know the exact wording, but I _do_ know that Snakeface only heard the first few lines, about a boy, born at the end of July in 1981, whose parents had defied the Dark Lord three times. That was why they attacked St. Mungo's, Lammastide of that year, I'm pretty sure. In the hopes of killing the baby. I mean, it makes sense, doesn't it? But Harry was born in hiding, and they – you," she corrected herself, looking at Lily, "stayed in hiding for over a year."

"Harry?" Pandora asked, just as Lily said, "Me?"

Ginny took a great, shuddering breath and glanced at Lily's vaguely curious features briefly before she admitted, in a near whisper, "Harry Potter… son of James and Lily Potter."

"I have a kid? Wait, how far in the future are you _from_?"

It was strange to think that that hadn't come up, yet, in the excitement of sharing her knowledge of Riddle and the war. In fact, it was rather strange that neither of them had yet demanded proof of her story, or to know how she knew. "1998. I'm from 1998. In 1992, my first year at Hogwarts, I was given the Diary horcrux by Lucius Malfoy, and it began to possess me. It used me to open the Chamber of Secrets. Harry is only a year older than me. He killed the Hogwarts Basilisk with the Sword of Gryffindor and destroyed the diary in the spring of 1993. He saved my life, but I was on the brink of death, with Riddle's soul half-bound to mine. When Harry… ripped him out of me… many of his memories were left behind. I – that's how I know most of this."

Pandora nodded, with an expression that said things were falling into place, but Lily looked outraged. "Please tell me you're having us on."

"Uh… no?" Ginny almost laughed at Lily's obvious disbelief. Surely having acquired a horcrux's memories was not any less likely than having been cast nineteen years into her own past?

"Why the hell was my twelve-year-old son anywhere near a _basilisk_ armed with a _sword_?"

Oh, _that_.

Pandora _did_ laugh. "Isn't it obvious, Lily Irene? He clearly inherited your penchant for… creative problem-solving and James Charles' noble streak."

The Gryffindor healer shut up. She crossed her arms, her face as red as her hair, and glowered at Ginny. "Go on."

Ginny swallowed hard. It was a very intimidating glower, and the next part of the story was possibly even worse than the idea of a twelve-year-old facing off against a giant snake. "Well, I don't really know that much about what happened between the last time Riddle wrote in the diary until now, because it was hidden away somewhere, and like I said the history books aren't all too clear on the details, and it's not like anyone outright said anything to me about it except for my family – the Weasleys and the Prewetts. Even that wasn't much, but you pick things up here and there, you know?"

Both witches nodded.

"Harry was, or will be, maybe? No, I'll use _was_. It's easier. He was born in 1980. July 31," the time traveler said abruptly. "Luna, your daughter, Pandora, was born in 1981. Her birthday was the 13th of February, but she insisted on celebrating it every Friday the thirteenth."

"That sounds like something my Xeno would encourage," the witch smiled.

"Luna's an oracle. I expect you'd figure that out soon enough," Ginny said with a small grin.

Pandora nodded. "It runs in the family, in a way."

"As far as I can tell from the hints she's given me over the years, there was a prophecy made about either Harry or Neville, Alice and Frank Longbottom's son, and the Dark Wanker. I don't know what it said, exactly, or when it was made, but the Wanker found out about it, and decided it was definitely Harry. He attacked the house where you were staying in 1981, on Halloween, and, well…"

"Well _what_?" Lily was practically falling out of her chair, she had leaned so far forward.

"James tried to hold him off, and you… you sacrificed yourself to save Harry. I don't know how, but you died, and he lived, and the Wanker was destroyed. He spent the next thirteen years without a body. Harry… Dumbledore sent Harry to live with your muggle sister, under blood wards that were supposed to protect him from MoldyShorts and the Death Eaters, because not even half of them ended up in Azkaban."

The green-eyed witch hadn't reacted at all when Ginny had mentioned her own death, but she glared fiercely at the idea that her son would go to live with her sister. "Not Sirius?"

"He ended up in Azkaban, framed for betraying you. It turned out Peter Pettigrew was a rat animagus, and you made him your secret keeper, for the Fidelius Charm."

"Right, I'll be having a _word_ with him as soon as possible, but right now… who was the other godparent? Not Sev – much as I'd want him, well… he _is_ a Death Eater."

"You'd've made _Snape_ his godfather?!" Ginny exclaimed, aghast. "But Snape and Harry – they _hated_ each other."

"Wait – if I'm dead, how did they even _know_ each other?" Lily asked.

"Snape's our potions professor, or, well, he was. He murdered the Headmaster last year, and MoldyShorts made him the new Headmaster."

"Sev ended up _teaching_? That's fucking tragic."

"He _murdered Dumbledore_ , and all you care about is that he was a teacher?!"

Lily just shrugged. "He's wanted to murder Dumbledore since sixth year. Bet he was a miserable professor, though. He hated tutoring. I can't even imagine him teaching a core subject."

Ginny stared at the older witch hard, for a long moment before deciding to give her the benefit of a doubt. "Are you like, in shock or something? Because we can take a break…"

The witch in question looked a bit confused at her concern. "I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be? Anyway, I was _going_ to say that yes, I'd choose Sev, because he's been more family to me than my actual sister ever was, even if we haven't talked in a year and a half. It doesn't matter, though. Obviously I _didn't_ choose him. Who was it? Pandora? Someone else in the Order? Lupin's not allowed because we live in a fucking fascist state, but –"

"Alice Longbottom."

"Alice? Why…? Nevermind, I don't suppose I would've told anyone. So why didn't the kid go to _her_? Or my parents? Or _your_ parents? Or literally any magical family _at all_? Change his name, change his birthdate, he could have been raised as a Bones, or a McKinnon!"

"The Longbottoms were attacked a week after you. Bellatrix Lestrange crucio'd them into insanity. I guess your parents were probably dead. All the Boneses except Amelia and Susan, who's Harry's age, were killed. And most of the McKinnons, too. Lupin couldn't for, um… health reasons. Amos Diggory had a breakdown after Alice was sent to St. Mungo's, and I think the Malfoys had a better claim on him than we did, seeing as Narcissa's Sirius' first-cousin. So no one on our side fought it when Dumbledore hid him away, even after we found out that he was with… _her_. And since he was with a second-degree blood relative, none of the other side could challenge it."

"So it's Dumbledore's fault."

"It was for his own safety," Ginny protested.

"Petunia _hates_ magic – anything unusual or strange! She prides herself on her mugglishness! We haven't been on friendly terms since I started at Hogwarts. The _best_ he would have gotten from her would be cold tolerance – no love or even acceptance. I would _rather_ my son live with Narcissa Black than Petunia _Dursley_! At least she would have known how to prepare him for –"

Ginny was appalled. "First Snape, and now _Narcissa Malfoy_? Seriously?! She'd have him kitted out like a little Death Eater before Hogwarts, if he wasn't killed off before his second birthday!"

"Well, she wouldn't be my _first_ choice, but she's not _that_ bad. Spoilt, selfish and a bit uptight, but she always comes out ahead, and living with Petunia is way more likely to make a kid hate muggles. Narcissa would probably never mention that muggles _existed_ if she could help it. And if the Death Eaters thought she was going to turn him, they'd leave him alone, wouldn't they?" she smirked, as though making an unquestionable argument.

"You're impossible! Absolutely –"

"Ginevra Phyllis," Pandora interrupted, with the same stern tone she used to shut down Lily's ranting. Ginny flushed, and shut her mouth. "Lily Irene is perfectly capable of choosing a godparent by her own criteria. Besides, she isn't even married yet, let alone expecting."

" _Thank_ you, Pandora!"

The elder witch turned mirror-bright eyes on her friend with a small smile. "Lily Irene, you are derailing the story." Lily flushed, and made a lip-zipping gesture. "Please go on, Ginevra Phyllis."

The youngest of the trio glared at the others for another long moment before she asked, "Where was I?"

"1981," the eldest suggested.

"Oh, well. Like I said, the Potters were in hiding, behind a Fidelius Charm, with Pettigrew as the Secret Keeper, even though everyone thought it was Black. MouldyShorts… he disappeared. It was never clear if his body was destroyed, or if he got away, or what, but I know when he showed up again, it was as a shade. If anyone knows how the protection on Harry worked, they never told me."

"I thought you said there were blood wards," Lily noted.

Ginny shook her head. "Harry said Dumbledore did those, and that was why he had to live with your sister. I mean I have no idea what you did to protect him on Halloween of 1981."

"It was Samhain?" the older witch said speculatively. "Hmmm…"

" _Anyway_ , after that, there was a ten-year… ceasefire, of sorts. About a half of the Death Eaters pled _Imperius_ and got off with major fines – the Malfoys took the lead in that, by the way, and it took a couple of years to round up most of the other stragglers. Um… Crouch's son turned out to be a Death Eater, so he was made to step down as the Head of the DMLE in 1981 – Hermione said that's one of the reasons Sirius never got a proper trial, reorganization in the department. Adamant Smith was the interim Head until Bagnold was replaced by Turpin in '83. Turpin cleaned house and found that Smith was a Death Eater sympathizer, so he was replaced with Amelia Bones in '84.

"By the time I was old enough to start asking questions about the war, the Truce was already in place – basically an agreement to put the war behind us all, and not talk about it except in the most vague and factual of terms. Mum didn't really agree with it – she told us all about what the Yaxleys and Dolohov and the Selwyns had done to our family, killing her brothers, and about Wilkes torturing her sister to death. We grew up knowing who we were supposed to hate. Malfoy, Nott, Rosier, Prince, Lestrange, Parkinson, Yaxley, Selwyn, Burke – there were hardly any old families who didn't have at least one or two people on one side or the other, but she said the ones who bought their way out of Azkaban were the worst.

"Then in 1991, the Dark Wanker came back as a shade, possessed the Defense Professor, and tried to steal the Philosopher's Stone. And in 1992, I was possessed by the diary. Sirius escaped from Azkaban in 1993. We found out about Pettigrew in '94, and he – the Wanker – got a new body in 1995."

"How?" Lily interrupted again, for the first time in minutes.

Ginny could only shrug. "Everything I know about that is second hand from things my brother Ron overheard while Harry was having nightmares. He didn't like to talk about it, but they were in the same dorm, you see. I think he took Harry's blood, and I know it happened in a cemetery, and Cedric Diggory died. Someone cut off his own hand, and there was an evil, demon baby involved, possibly. Ron thought that last bit might have just been a dream, though. Is that, erm… important?"

"Everything and anything could be important, Ginevra," Pandora smiled reassuringly.

"Evil, demon baby, and my son's blood…" Lily muttered under her breath, then added at a more normal volume: "Go on, I'm listening."

The time traveler hesitated. She didn't particularly care to examine her own experiences in the war too closely, and they were getting disturbingly close to that period. But she couldn't exactly refuse to tell them at least the basics, especially when Pandora had just said that anything might be important. "He – the Dark Wanker – spent most of the next year trying to get at the record of the prophecy in the Department of Mysteries. The Order was guarding it. My father was nearly killed guarding it. Harry… I think he was having visions, or dreams, where he was in the Wanker's head. He thought he was being possessed, or something. Stupid boy. Being possessed isn't like that at all."

Lily hummed. "No, if anything, it's more the other way around…"

Pandora gave her a startled look. " _Subsumption_ , Lily Irene?!"

"What? No! It was voluntary, and it was only Sev! I wanted to see what Legilimency was like, that's all!"

"Erm… what?"

"It's not important, Ginny – No, Dora, seriously, it was _ages_ ago, and it was only a _little_ possession, and it's not like I can do it on a whim – it was a spell that emulated a twin bond. Almost like the Tyrolian Trimaguum, but less total. I swear, it's like you think I'm the next coming of Satan himself some days."

Pandora raised a silvery eyebrow at her skeptically. "The devil's daughter, perhaps. I rather think M. de Mort would take exception to your usurping his title."

Lily, predictably, smirked at this. "Hell is empty, and all the devils are here, Ferdinand?"

"Not _all_."

"Oh, shut up. Gin, go on with the story," the redhead ordered crossly. "Possession?"

Ginny, baffled, looked between the two older witches for a moment before she decided an explanation was not forthcoming. She sighed. Sometimes it was like hanging about with Fred and George to be around these two, or perhaps a calmer, more mature Luna and a darker, more vicious Hermione, always speaking in some sort of code – half old memories and in-jokes, and half obscure references no one else would catch, though it was not, apparently, intentional.

"Ah, right… so Harry thought he was being possessed, but he wasn't, and I'm not sure what was going on there, but apparently it was like, an ongoing thing? Hermione mentioned that he was supposed to be taking Occlumency lessons from Snape, but they weren't getting on well. Which really wasn't surprising. And then at the end of the year, he said he'd had a vision of the Wanker torturing Sirius at the Ministry, and he had to go – _we_ had to go. We tried to save him, but… but it turns out he wasn't there at all – that _bastard_ managed to trick Harry somehow, and it was just a bunch of Death Eaters waiting for us to get the Prophecy.

"We fought back, but it would have been only a matter of time until they caught us, except the Order came to save us, and – and Bellatrix cursed Sirius, and he fell through the Veil of Death… because of us. Because he was there to save Harry.

"I don't think Harry ever got over that. Sirius was the closest thing to a parent he'd ever had, you see. The only one he'd ever known. And he only had him for such a short time. And it was because Harry had been tricked, because he had run into danger, that Sirius was even there, and not in hiding like he ought to have been… He wasn't the same, after. Dumbledore started paying more attention to him, telling him things about Riddle's life, before Voldemort. The whole next school year was… bad. Not as bad as the one before, in some ways, but…

"The Bastard kept his head down during fourth year – he didn't want the Ministry rallying against him before he was ready, before he could recruit allies, I guess. But he revealed himself at the Ministry, when the Order was about to capture the Death Eaters he had sent, so by fifth year, everyone knew, and we were really at war, or at least, the adults were, outside the school. Dumbledore… he'd been cursed, or something, over the summer. His hand. He was teaching Harry about Riddle because he knew he wouldn't have enough time to finish what he had started, hunting down Riddle's horcruxes.

"I – I should have told him, them, what I knew. It might have saved them time. But I didn't. I couldn't tell anyone about – about Riddle's memories. Dumbledore especially… he wouldn't have understood that I was still _me_." She sniffled, and swiped viciously at the tears that were threatening to fall.

"Guess it's a good thing the nosey old bugger can't be arsed to question you himself," Lily smirked.

"What… are you going to _tell_ him?" Ginny asked, momentarily forgetting the elder witches' opinions on their Fearless Leader in her panic. "You can't!"

The Healers exchanged a _look_ , and then Pandora said, simply, "No."

"N-no?"

"We trust you, Ginevra."

"Plus we're sworn to secrecy, remember?"

 _Well,_ now _I do_ , Ginny thought, feeling incredibly stupid, as well as somewhat relieved.

Pandora glared at Lily. "Even if we weren't, we would not betray your trust. You have not lied to us. You have not tried to hide anything. You are deeply damaged, yes, but the memories you stole from the one who would have subjugated you have not tainted you with his madness."

"And honestly, if it comes down to it, you're not as damaged as, say… Sirius."

"Or Lily," Pandora added pointedly, though she smirked slightly herself as she added: "Though both she and Sirius Orion are quite mad, too."

"Brilliant. The word you're looking for is _brilliant_ ," she corrected her friend. "At least for me. That Sirius Black is a bit of a nutter."

"Madness and brilliance are not mutually exclusive. My Xeno would say they go hand in hand. But the point remains, we would not betray your confidence, Ginevra, even if we could. Albus Dumbledore is a very intelligent, powerful wizard, but he has his flaws, like any other, and his stubborn adherence to his Gryffindorish worldview is one of them."

Ginny sighed, ignoring the former Ravenclaw's jab at Gryffindor. Sometimes she wished that life could be so simple as it was when she was a child, and Albus Dumbledore was brilliant and infallible, rather than merely human.

"Yeah, no worries, hon. If he looks to be getting suspicious about your cover, I'll tell him you're a time traveler, and I ran the arithmancy, and you can't tell him anything, for risk of destabilizing the time-line, or some other pseudo-realistic sounding BS. He's clearly afraid of his own power, so I highly doubt he'll press the issue."

"Afraid of his own power? Dumbledore?"

Pandora nodded. "Oh, yes. Why else would the most powerful wizard in Britain turn down the ministry to teach, and even then refuse to actively shape the experiences of three-quarters or more of the school? He is no Slughorn, to make and exploit connections, and no Flitwick, interested in shaping young minds. He looks to the big picture, with the Progressive Agenda, normalizing the muggleborn experience, but that he could do just as well and with more effect elsewhere, as he does in the Wizengamot. Hogwarts is his refuge from the temptation to re-make the world."

"That's…" That made a lot of sense, actually.

Lily apparently misinterpreted her neglected sentence, because she gave the younger girl a positively cynical smirk. "Do you really think that, if Dumbledore was willing to use all of his power and resources, this war would have gone on so long? It's been nine _years_ , Gin. The Dark is playing games, and the Light is taking it all too seriously, and we're _still_ not making any headway, because _someone_ is afraid to escalate the situation to the point that he will have to actually _act._ And if _that_ isn't enough, look at the laws he's put through in the last thirty years, restricting access to any magic that is remotely powerful – rituals, healing, weatherworking, alchemy – honestly, it's absurd."

"You, um… isn't that what the Dark say?"

The redhead glared. "You can't possibly think that I'm actually for the Light, here, can you? I mean, I'm not for the Dark, either, if they're being led by that madman, and I don't approve of much of the Traditionalist agenda, seeing as I did grow up as a muggleborn at Hogwarts, and I _know_ how hard it would be for me to find work even if I wasn't a target in this bloody stupid war, but I _certainly_ don't think the sun shines out of Dumbledore's arsehole or that we ought to set aside the lion's share of our power because of how it _could_ be used by _someone_."

"And _that_ ," Pandora interrupted, "is exactly why he doesn't trust you, either."

"We're in a _war_ , Dora! Anything goes!"

"The only people who truly believe that are you, Auror Moody, and Sirius Orion!"

" _And_ the _entire_ _enemy side_!"

"As though lowering yourself to their level is a good thing?"

"It is if it stops them from killing us all! I didn't see you complaining after Imbolc!"

"Imbolc was _incredibly dangerous_! You should never even have _attempted_ that ritual! You're not at all suited to it!"

Ginny nearly did a double-take at the sudden escalation: she had _never_ heard Mrs. Lovegood yell, even when she and the boys had taken the seven-year-old Luna on an impromptu two-day camping trip without telling anyone. _Her_ mother had yelled at them for hours, but Pandora had just asked whether they'd found any new and interesting creatures on their two-day "walk."

"The Youthful Power seemed to think I was," Lily said triumphantly, sticking out her tongue at her older friend.

"What happened at Imbolc?" Ginny vaguely recalled the old, traditionalist holiday. It was sometime in February, and had to do with youth and potential. She didn't know anyone who actually _celebrated_ it, though.

"Don't ask," Lily advised.

"The Battle of Artemis, I believe you called it," Pandora explained.

The time-traveler blanched. The Battle of Artemis had taken place in Hogsmeade, and it had been a slaughter. Someone on the Light side had summoned a construct that had taken the form of the Goddess and hunted down the Death Eaters like animals. Were they _really_ suggesting that _Lily Evans_ had been responsible for that?

"Yeah, well, _anyway_ , if we're through discussing my possible impending war crimes tribunal, shall we continue with the story?"

It seemed they were. For perhaps the fiftieth time since her arrival, barely two weeks before, Ginny felt as though she were drowning in this strange tide of events, so different from her expectations, and anything she had ever before experienced, even in her own war. She shoved the feeling away, but before she could continue, a siren started wailing about incoming wounded.

"Oh, bloody hell. Later. I still want the rest of the story," Lily insisted, hauling herself to her feet. Pandora was already at the door, headed toward the large, open receiving bay.

Ginny followed them, eager to help. A healer's work left no room to concentrate on anything other than fixing shattered bones and torn muscles and the scorched skin of the lashes across Sirius Black's fire-whipped back.

She relished the reprieve from thinking about her friends, left behind in the future, and their own war wounds, less easily healed.


	37. NYB5: Traitor

The day after the second installment of Ginny's tale was the third Friday of the month, which had begun on a Tuesday. This meant, according to Jessie and Becca, that Pandora would be spending the day (and the weekend to follow) with Xeno, working to get the latest edition of the Quibbler printed and ready for distribution on Monday. Why the magazine was published on the third Monday of the month, none of them had any idea. Luna had once told Ginny it was tradition, and encouraged the accumulation of wide-eyed gobwobblers. Personally, Ginny thought it was simply another way to make its owner seem even more insane than he actually was – a façade which she now knew he had maintained since about this period in order to avoid persecution for his articles while still disseminating the truth… to those who knew how to interpret it.

In any case, this meant that Ginny was inclined to hold off on telling the rest of the story for the moment. Not only was she not inclined to tell it more than once, she greatly desired the serene healer's presence to help keep Lily in check as she began recounting the events of Harry's life ( _and death – but don't think about that_ ).

Even if she had been willing to tell the rest of it, the Safehouse was, once again, abuzz with activity. Moody came by to have Lily look at a suspicious rash. He suspected poisoning. Lily suspected a prank. Sirius came by to have his burns examined, pick up the latest supply requisition list, and have the curses Moody had set on him removed. Apparently 'I was just checking your CONSTANT VIGILANCE' was not an acceptable excuse for putting an itching potion on a man's towels. James tagged along for the excuse to visit Lily, and also apparently for the opportunity to further mock Sirius about his failed prank. Dumbledore made his weekly visit and insisted on chatting with Ginny, who added as few details as she could to her cover story, and spent the hour after he left attempting to recall everything she might have said, in order to write it down and not contradict herself in the future. Lying about her entire life, she was finding, was more difficult than she had initially imagined it would be.

Frank Longbottom dragged Alice Diggory in late that evening. She insisted she felt perfectly fine, but he was complaining that she 'hadn't been quite right' since the raid the night before. Lily berated them soundly for not reporting in with the other Order Auror teams who had been involved before spending two hours teaching Jessie, Becca, and Ginny a slew of diagnostic charms and the proper differential diagnosis to determine the specific time-delayed mood-altering curse she had been hit with.

It turned out to be fairly nasty.

"So you're saying if we don't get rid of it in the next six hours or so, she's likely to go berserk and try to kill me?" Frank summarized incredulously.

Lily shrugged, closing her reference book with a snap. "Or herself. Sometimes it's not quite strong enough to overcome the target's love. It doesn't quite negate it, but it can re-direct it to become self-destructive, rather than destroying the love in question."

"Well, how do we get _rid_ of it?!" Alice snapped. Her slightly ruddy features had gone pale at the thought of her impending doom, or possibly at the fact that they had come so close to not coming in at all.

"What, you don't want to find out if your love for Frankie here is strong enough to overcome the Madness of Heracles?"

"Lily!" the couple shouted as one.

"Gods and powers, relax! Frank, I need you to go find me a couple of strays. Dogs or cats would be good. Jessie, Becca, set up a pair of Morrison's Circles. Alice, Jenny… I guess you can just keep each other company?" She seemed rather at a loss as to what to do with two extra pairs of hands, but after a moment, she shrugged. "Unless one of you is really good at potions?"

"I'm… not bad," Ginny admitted, curious.

"Not bad according to… your professor?"

"He gave me an 'E' on my fourth year finals."

"Well, knowing his standards… yeah, you can help. Alice…"

"I'll help Frank with the dogs," she volunteered.

"Good! Yes. Do that. And it goes without saying that anything that you see here tonight never happened, right?" the redheaded healer pointed seriously from Frank to Alice and back again.

"Sure, Evans," Frank agreed.

"If whatever we're doing works, I won't say anything," Alice nodded.

"Oh! Didn't I say? Sorry. We're moving the curse from you to one stray, feeding it a modified love potion and setting it at the other stray."

Ginny was sure that all of the others were as shocked as herself, but it was Becca who objected first. "You mean you're gonna make it kill it? Lily, you _can't_!"

"Look, Beck. It's going to be all _I_ can do to move the curse. I don't have the power to destroy something like that, and I'm not going to fuck around with trying to teach Frank Unmaking on something this important."

"Unmaking?" the auror echoed.

"Abolefascio," Lily said, turning to him. "Yeah, I thought you wouldn't know it. It's extremely dark, and it's the only way to destroy this class of curse, or, well… the least extreme option to destroy it, and still ensure that it is completely destroyed. So the only realistic option is to let it play out. Which means, unless you'd rather watch Alice try to kill Frank…"

The younger girl looked ill. "I don't think I can watch." Jessie nodded uncertainly. Ginny wished she could agree, but after the year she had just had, she was fairly sure she had seen worse. She shrugged. She was curious enough to stick it out.

"That's fine," Lily said blithely. "You don't have to be there when I trigger it."

"You're going to actually _trigger_ it?" Alice objected.

"It's not _that_ dangerous, and I'd rather _not_ spend my night babysitting a couple of strays until the timer runs out by itself. You can leave too, if you like. I'm not going to do it until we're done taking care of you, anyway."

The trainee auror huffed, but said nothing. Her mentor and future husband looked grim, but determined.

"Good? Good." Lily clapped imperiously. "Let's _go_ people, we don't have all night!"

Alice and Frank apparated out with matching cracks as the kids wandered off toward one of the storerooms.

Ginny followed Lily into the makeshift potions lab in the north-east corner of the warehouse. The older witch began muttering aloud almost at once as she searched the shelves. "Let's see. I think we still have enough Cariadona, but that would need the strength boosted considerably as well as the modification for animal use. Do you think it would be faster than brewing a modified batch of Diliction?"

"Erm…" All Ginny knew about love potions had been gathered from conversations between Fred and George as they discussed new product ideas, and she didn't know their recipes.

"Ooh! I forgot I made Amorinora a few months ago! That should work perfectly if – yes! Just enough!" the healer exclaimed, holding a jar of ashwinder eggs to the light. There were only a few left.

"Amorinora?"

"It's the counter to Amortentia," Lily explained, quickly assembling her workspace. "Hand me that mortar? Thanks, love. Anyway, A'nora is just as illegal as A'tentia because it's so easy to turn it into Echo's Tears. Glass cauldron," she pointed at the shelf behind Ginny, who passed it to her. "Thanks. Now, pluck the leaves off this knotweed and – you know Crandon's Rehydration Formula?"

"Um, yeah." Snape had taught them that one in their third year, even though it was OWL standard. It wasn't the easiest potion to make, but it was very quick and very useful, especially since Hogwarts ingredients were stored for months before they were used.

"Good. Whip up a batch and soak the stems until they're pliable, then rinse them in moon-charged water to clear." Ginny set to work stripping dried leaves from the bundle of knotweed, watching from the corner of her eye as Lily crushed dried sea-onion flowers into a powder and poured it into the cauldron, now sitting in a shallow dish of ice and water, along with a greyish, opalescent potion.

As she did so, the older witch continued to explain: "Echo's Tears causes obsession, pure and simple, far past the point of any thought of one's own health or safety. It's somewhat different from Narcissus' Cordial, because it can be targeted to another individual, and it's easier to adapt to animal use than most love or lust potions because most of them operate by building on existing affections or attraction or a preexisting idea of love and what that means to the drinker, and animals don't have that between them. If I had Amortentia, of course, we could just use that, but I hadn't expected to need it, and it takes _ages_ to brew…" she trailed off, carefully piercing each ashwinder egg with a silver needle and allowing the contents – which looked like a cross between egg yolk and lava – to drip into the cauldron and the potion. It immediately turned orange and started smoking, melting the ice in the tray. "How's that knotweed coming?"

"Nearly done," Ginny muttered, stirring the rehydration potion three more times counterclockwise and noting the change in color that indicated it was ready. She dropped the dry bundle of stems into her own cauldron and prodded it under the surface with her stirring rod, pouring the purified water into a series of beakers with her other hand.

"Fabulous. We have a window of about fifteen minutes, now," the healer told her, setting the still-steaming glass cauldron into what seemed to be some sort of distillation apparatus and tidying her workspace. She sighed.

"What is it?" Ginny asked, carefully lifting the mess of now-spaghetti-like greenery from its potion with a pair of stirring rods and dropping it into the first beaker of water.

"Oh, just thinking. I'm going to have to get Peter to bring us more ashwinder eggs tomorrow." She paused, but in such a way that the younger witch was almost certain she hadn't finished her thought. Sure enough, as she moved the knotweed again, Lily continued. "I want your permission to invite James and Sirius over, and give Peter a truth potion in their presence. And to question him about whether he is spying on the Order."

Ginny nearly dropped the plants, fishing them out of the last bath with her slippery, oversized chop-sticks. " _What_? Here," she passed them to the other witch, who added them to the now-boiling potion and quickly sealed the cover in place. The fumes began to condense into a sickly-looking yellow-green drip.

"You heard me," Lily said, when this task was complete. "I need your permission to act, since this is something I only know from your telling me."

"Didn't Pandora say we should wait, though?"

"On the horcruxes," Lily sniffed dismissively. "And I still think that plan would work. But every day we let Peter fucking Pettigrew walk free is another day he can pass information on the Order to the Death Eaters. Unless you were lying about his involvement?"

"N-no. I'm not – why would I lie about that?" Hard green eyes bored into Ginny's, as though Lily could judge her soul with a glare. She was suddenly very aware that the healers had no real reason to believe her story. _She_ hadn't sworn an oath, after all – for all Lily knew, she _was_ lying. And she could see the sense in cutting off the Death Eaters' source within the Order… and she couldn't seem to think of any convincing reason not to do it. "Okay," she said finally. "I don't think it could hurt…"

The redhead rolled her eyes, all traces of suspicion gone in an instant. "Well, it's probably going to make everything you know from after this point somewhat more subjective, but fuck it: if you're sure about staying and willing to change the timeline, I say go for broke."

"But –" Ginny began, suddenly worried that by changing this now, her information would become irrelevant, and they wouldn't be able to change something more important later – or what if, without Pettigrew to betray the Potters, Voldemort was never defeated, let alone killed?

But Lily cut her off with a grin and "No take-backs!" and before Ginny could explain, Alice and Frank reappeared with a pair of twin apparition cracks and stunned dogs in hand. The healer went to join them at once, leaving the time traveler to sigh and hope that this wasn't all going to end terribly.

xXx

It didn't end _terribly_ , though it was a close call: Sirius nearly throttled Peter before he could explain himself, and then it turned out that he had never been a willing spy in the first place. He broke down in tears of relief as soon as he realized that his (former?) friends weren't simply going to kill him out of hand for being an idiot and a coward, and getting himself into this mess, let alone trying to handle it himself and only getting pulled further into the hole he had dug.

Essentially, or so Ginny gathered, Peter had been a victim as much as anyone, having been blackmailed into a series of ever-more-compromising situations until he had found himself in the unenviable position of having to spy on his friends, lest it be revealed to them (and the aurors) what he had already done. And he hadn't been able to bring himself to admit the truth precisely because he had been such a bloody idiot.

She was uncomfortably reminded of the position she had found herself in back in her first year at Hogwarts, when she had managed to get free of Riddle's diary – if only temporarily – and yet hadn't told anyone about her idiocy, hoping that it was over and no one need ever find out.

The difference was, of course, that Peter's friends _had_ found out, and before he managed to extract himself from the situation.

Well, that and she had been entirely aware by that point that the boy who had seduced her into doing terrible things was not to be trusted, no matter how much she might have loved him once. Peter still seemed to be deluded into thinking his own Tom – Sirius' younger brother, Regulus – had only wanted what was best for him, when really he had been (as was clear to all four of the others) intentionally entrapping Peter, leading him to do something blackmail-worthy.

Peter very obviously couldn't see it.

"Fuck, Pete! What the bloody hell were you thinking trusting _Regulus_ , of all people!"

"Siri – he didn't mean to – he never wanted – and now he's _dead_!"

Sirius fixed his quivering friend with a steely-eyed glare. "That's what you get when you join up with the Dark Bastard, isn't it?"

James reined in the furious Black with a firm grip on his arm. "Harsh, Pads."

For once, Sirius jerked his arm away. "NO! No it is not! That slimy little git wanted to be a Death Eater since he was a kid. Even if he did get cold feet and run away like a coward at the end –"

"He was _worried_ about you!" Peter interrupted shrilly. "I wouldn't have even started talking to him in the first place, but he was worried about _you_ , and then…" he trailed off miserably.

Sirius seemed to deflate. He shook his head pityingly. "You loved him."

Peter flushed scarlet, but nodded hesitantly.

"Fucking idiot. He was a liar. He was a fucking _consummate_ liar, Pete. I fucking guarantee you were just a job to him. A – an assignment. He didn't care about you, no matter what he told you."

"It wasn't like that!" the pudgy young man protested. "He never said anything –"

Sirius scoffed. "Of _course_ he didn't! He just paid attention to you. Made you feel like he was the only one in the world who understood you. Like _you_ were the only one in the world who understood _him_. Maybe acted a little reluctant to admit he felt anything, implied weakness that he only trusted _you_ to know about… Fuck, Pete! Seducing someone is _not difficult_. Ask Evans if you don't believe me!"

Lily glared at the leather-clad Marauder, but she did nod, rather reluctantly. "Regulus was… a nasty piece of work, Peter."

"He was _sixteen_!" the blond protested.

"He was a _Black_!" Sirius refuted.

" _You're_ a Black," James pointed out.

Sirius punched him in the arm, hard enough that he failed to hide a wince. "That's how I know what I'm talking about! I fucking guarantee Reg was working on an initiation project when he was sixteen. You don't get into the Death Eaters without proving yourself. You just don't. And he was initiated at seventeen, so."

"I thought you had to kill someone?" James asked.

Sirius shrugged. "Sure, for the initiation ceremony. They pick a muggle that reminds you of the person you care most about in the world. It's symbolic. But to even apply to join, you have to prove you're _worthy of the honor_." He made a disgusted face, then glared impotently over an ill-concealed expression of unease when he noticed the looks James and Peter were giving him.

"How would you know?" James asked slowly.

Surprisingly, at least to Ginny, it was Lily who defended the wayward Black. "Oh, come off it, Jamie. You _know_ Bellatrix is in charge of training new Death Eaters. I'd be more surprised if Sirius _hadn't_ picked a few things up over the years."

Sirius snorted. "Not that any of it's of much use now, seeing as it's all six years or more out of date. I got pretty good at avoiding all that after third year or so. _Regulus_ though," he added pointedly, looking back to Peter, "was a perfect little Death Eater in Training. He and Narcissa used to make the new recruits teach them Dark spells in the summers for fun."

"I don't think –" Peter began, but Sirius cut him off almost at once.

"Clearly! Fuck, Pete, what would it take to convince you? If he weren't dead, I'd kidnap the bastard and make him tell you himself, but, honestly!"

Lily snorted. "You could kidnap that Rosier kid. Evan."

" _Evan_?" Sirius asked. "Were you actually on first-name terms with him?"

"We had mutual… acquaintances."

"Fucking Snivellus," James muttered. Lily punched him in the arm, ignoring his look of betrayal and his outraged "He's a _Death Eater,_ Evans!"

" _Severus_ wasn't the one who introduced us, anyway. He helped organize the Samhain and Walpurgis rituals the last couple of years at school."

"The what?" Ginny asked, but she was ignored. James looked equally confused, as did Peter.

Sirius seemed to know what she was talking about, but he just snorted. "Of course he did. Kiss-arse. Right, then, Pete, do I need to go kidnap my cousin to tell you that Reggie was using you, or will you take my bloody word for it? Because honestly, mate… Reg was a Black. You didn't rate to him, except if he could use you. Which he obviously did. And so well you're still defending the git."

Peter glared. "Is that why _you're_ friends with me? Because you're using me somehow?"

The Black scion's lip curled in an ugly smirk. "Of course not. I haven't tried to live up to my family's expectations since I was nine. But Reg did. And _he_ was _good_ at it, telling people what they wanted to hear and getting them to give him what he wanted. In this case, _you_ , in a position where you could be _forced to betray us all_ ," he added pointedly.

Peter seemed to deflate. "I believe you," he said sullenly, sniffling slightly.

James sighed, clapping him on the shoulder. "All right. What do we do now, then?" he asked the group at large.

Silence answered his question until, a few seconds later, Lily spoke up with a hesitant tone and reluctant expression which Ginny was entirely certain were false. "Well, if no one else has any ideas, I might have a few suggestions…"


	38. Mindswap and Redemption Summary

There are certain segments of the Harry Potter fandom which more or less idolize Hermione. You know, the people who think that Hermione really should have been the main character of the stories all along, because she was the only one of the trio with a brain. Now, I don't necessarily think JKR did a great job portraying her as very intelligent in the series, but I'm still one of those people who wants to see what she could have been if she were actually the main character, and not just the brainy sidekick (or, as in Mary Potter, a mostly-independent secondary protagonist doing her own thing on the sidelines). So this is that story: What happens if you put Hermione Granger's mind into Harry Potter's body, effectively making her the Boy Who Lived?

So she wakes up in his body, and vice versa. While he revels in his new-found loving family (which more than makes up for the strangeness of waking up as a girl), she drastically re-evaluates her priorities, endeavoring to act like the story-book heroines with whom she is so familiar and deal with this unpleasant development as efficiently as possible.

First order of business: escaping the Dursleys.

Second order of business: ensuring she goes home from Diagon Alley with the kind, proper, and very wealthy Malfoys rather than the quite frankly creepy old man who apparently left Harry with the Dursleys in the first place.

Third order of business: finding _someone_ who will not only _believe_ that she is not Harry Potter, but who will help her get her own bloody life back! (Voldemort, the Philosopher's Stone, and any related attempts on her (Harry's) life are far less important than the fact that she's been turned into a bloody _boy_ , damn it!)

This story started as a straightforward body-swapping, what-if plot, and then Narcissa Malfoy happened. The Mary Potter Multiverse being what it is, the logical outcome of her gaining control over Jamie was obviously to sacrifice her choice of declaring to the Dark in an attempt to renew the broken covenant between the House of Black and the Dark Powers. So now The Adventure of the Magical Mindswap is intended to run in parallel with Regulus Black and the Redemption of the Darkest House, which examines the consequences when someone other than Dumbledore uses 'Harry' as their own pawn, far more directly than Dumbledore did in the first few books; what happens when the ex-Death-Eaters take it upon themselves to mutiny against their missing master; and why they might be interested in such a path.

These were initially a single story, and may be re-combined again at some point if I can make the pacing… not too weird.


	39. Mindswap 1

**1 May 2002**

 **(the day before the Third Anniversary of the Final Battle)**

* * *

Hermione carefully double-checked the runes she had laid out on her workroom floor and began chanting the incantation she had discovered in a crumbling text at the back of the Restricted Section. It had taken years to re-construct the ancient spell, but she found she had a great deal more free time at school when no one was trying to kill her best friend, and it wasn't as though her position with the Ministry was exactly all-consuming. Besides, if she had learned one thing since meeting Harry Potter, it was that some things were more important than marks (or productivity evaluations). Like Tonks and Remus, whose son was now three and had never known his parents. Like Fred, whose family was lost without him, even now. Like Sirius, who had never gotten to really live, going from war to Azkaban, to being a fugitive before he was cut down by his own cousin. Like Dumbledore and Colin Creevey and even that horrible cow Lavender Brown.

They had won the war, yes, but the cost had been high – too high.

It was said that awful things happened to those who meddled with Time, but the truth was, awful things had happened anyway. It could have been worse, of course, but with a little more knowledge in the right place, well… it could have been a lot better, too.

Power grew heavy in the air, focusing itself on Hermione, as she sat at the center of the complex circle. _Send it back_ , she thought, _everything we know now – everything I wish I'd known then. Give me – everyone – this chance to re-make our world…_

Then there was a crack, and a mussy, bleeding, dark-haired young man dropped out of thin air on top of her, the power collapsing around them, backlash overwhelmingly painful. Hermione's world went black, and when it re-appeared, she groaned.

"Harry?"

The wizard who had apparated straight into her flat made an inarticulate noise and sat up slowly. "Hermione? W's go'n on?"

"Oooh! You've ruined everything! What were you even _thinking?_ "

"Aaah, Death Eaters, run?" he deadpanned, clearly unimpressed. "What were you _doing_?"

"It's – I'm – you weren't supposed to know! I didn't want you to find out!"

" _Hermione_ ," Harry sounded almost scared. "What did you _do_?"

"Oh, I don't know! It was supposed to send knowledge, information, to my younger self! But it didn't work – you interrupted, and, and I don't think anything's changed!"

She broke down in tears, and when she finally recovered herself, Harry called Ron, and they spent the better part of the remainder of the day talking her out of her grand plan to save _everyone_.

"It's over, Hermione," Ron whispered, holding her close and petting her curls gently. "We have to move on."

* * *

Meanwhile, on another plane of existence, Chaos cackled wildly and watched with bated breath as a new infinity of possibilities spawned from a highly improbable road-not-traveled.


	40. Mindswap 2

**The First Day – Monday, 22 July 1991**

 _ **Hermione**_

Hermione Granger was cold. She was also (mostly) asleep, and did _not_ want to get up yet, so she snuggled deeper beneath her thin blanket, half-wondering what had happened to her nice fluffy duvet, and why her parents had turned the air conditioning up so far. She was also hungry. Maybe it was almost time to get up, anyway, but her desire for sleep was still (barely) stronger than her desire to find breakfast. She rolled over and promptly fell to the floor, looking around wildly, confused. Then, as she realized her surroundings, she panicked.

She was in a box! A tiny, too-small space! She had been sleeping on a cot, in a tiny room with no windows! What was going on? Had she been kidnapped? Where were her parents? Her clothes? Her bedroom? There were no windows, and only a thin shaft of light to indicate a door. She threw herself against it desperately. It was _locked_!

For the first time in ten years, number four, Privet Drive, woke to shrieks of horror.

 _ **Harry**_

Harry Potter woke up warm and comfortable, to cheerful sunlight streaming through an east-facing window. He was in a bedroom decorated in warm fall colors, its brownish red walls covered with shelves holding more books than he had ever seen anywhere outside of a library. He blinked, hard. Still there. Pinched himself. Not dreaming.

 _Impossible._

That was about the point that he noticed the hand and the arm pinching it were _not his_.

He scrambled out of bed and tripped over a pile of discarded clothing and yet more books, struggling to reach the gleam of a mirror on the half-open closet door. A girl with brown eyes and wildly curly brown hair, quite a lot taller than Harry himself, stared back at him. He touched her – his? – face gently, shocked, and then pinched himself again. Still apparently not asleep.

"Hermione!" an exasperated male voice called from elsewhere in the house. "Wake up, goose! Muffins will be done in ten minutes!"

Harry grinned. He had no _idea_ what was going on, but it wasn't the first time something completely impossible had happened to him. Muffins sounded brilliant, and he was fully prepared to enjoy whatever this was… as soon as he figured out how girls used the loo.

 _ **Hermione**_

There was a thundering above Hermione's head, and then the door was thrown open, fairly well blinding her in the brief second before the light was obscured by an enormously overgrown walrus of a man. He hauled her out of what she now saw was a boot-cupboard by the arm.

She was, of course, still shrieking – "What's going on? Where am I? Who are you? Have you kidnapped me? Why? My parents haven't any money – they're just _dentists!_ You must have me confused with someone else!"

The man was shaking her, shouting a similar litany – "What is the meaning of this racket, boy? Have you no respect? What the bloody hell are you on about? Your parents died in a bloody smash-up, you daft freak!"

A thin, horse-faced woman and a ridiculously obese boy of about Hermione's own age appeared around the man's back. It was the woman who spoke. "Vernon?"

'Vernon' threw Hermione hard against the wall opposite the still-open door of the cupboard, hovering over her threateningly. Her head cracked against the wall. "Well, boy? What do you have to say for yourself?!"

Hermione froze, her mind suddenly focused on the man's words, rather than her own fearful assumptions or even the pain at the back of her skull. _Boy?_ Something decidedly _odd_ was going on here. Stranger even than when she thought she had been kidnapped. It was as though they had mistaken her for someone else, which shouldn't even be possible, since they thought she was some _boy_ , and how had she gotten into their house, anyway, and was the 'boy' _supposed_ to have been locked in a cupboard? He must have been – there was a cot, after all, but that didn't make any sense _at all_.

The man was still looming and glowering at her. She shrank away from the large, meaty hands that had thrown her into the wall. "Please, sir – I – I'm sorry – I just –"

The man harrumphed. "Lost his ruddy mind," he grumbled, lumbering away.

"Get dressed, and then into the kitchen, earn your keep," the woman said with a disdainful sniff. "And mind you don't ruin the eggs, or we'll re-consider letting you out of your cupboard today! You'd think a month would be enough," she added under her breath as she followed the man who had to be her husband out of the hall.

The boy kicked her hard, in the ribs, as he waddled after his parents. "I was havin' a lie-in, freak!" he added, which she supposed was supposed to be some sort of explanation for his actions.

 _Hermione Jean Granger_ , she thought to herself, as she rose unsteadily on what she quickly realized were unfamiliar feet, _what on Earth have you got yourself into now?_

 _ **Harry**_

After a few misadventures in the bathroom, and a frantic hunt through Hermione's closet for something that didn't feel too terribly awkward to wear, Harry had joined her parents for breakfast. The father – Dan, according to the mother – was a jolly man who gave off an air of distracted bookishness. The mother – Emma – was all barely-restrained energy and excitement. Harry mostly kept quiet over the meal, making non-committal noises when the adults said things like "Weren't you hungry? You normally eat before you shower," "Maiabee, did you comb your hair? You know you have to before it dries…" and "Slow down, love, we're not going to be late!"

It was, he decided, entirely odd, being treated more like the Dursleys treated Dudley, instead of himself.

As it turned out, Hermione and her parents had been planning to meet with the Headmistress of her prep school and the Headmaster of a nearby public academy to discuss whether Hermione could skip ahead (another) year, joining Year 9 when classes resumed, instead of Year 7, like Harry had been planning to do. So far as he could tell, from the adults' discussion, the girl whose body he was now in had already skipped over one of the primary years, and had just _finished_ Year 7, though she was less than a year older than he was. He figured she must be the bookish sort – it made sense with her room, he supposed.

It was bad luck on him, though, because he was bottom of the class in Year 6. This was due to a combination of days missed in punishment, no time to do his homework, and the fact that he was punished whenever he accidentally did better than Dudley on a test. He had just barely passed his end of term exams, and that was a near thing – after the 'incident' with the snake at the zoo, Aunt Petunia had almost not let him go to school at all.

Thankfully, Hermione's parents, the Grangers, didn't want their daughter advanced another year. If they had, and he had been asked to take a test or something, Harry was sure he would never have been able to keep up the act of being Hermione Granger, even if whatever was going on only lasted for the day. As it was, he was able to side-step the whole situation by "reluctantly" agreeing that perhaps it was best after all if Hermione took an extra year to "focus on social development and get to know your peers, dear." Harry heaved a sigh of relief as the Grangers led him back to the car, though his relief was short-lived as his sudden "change of heart" was thoroughly questioned on the drive back to the Grangers' home.

Having parents, he decided, must be much more difficult than he had ever imagined, back when he was lying awake in his cupboard and imagining what his own must have been like.

 _ **Hermione**_

Hermione did not learn the name of the person she was meant to be until halfway through breakfast.

She had, in fact, burnt the eggs, or some of them, anyway, whilst having a mild panic attack over the fact that she was now, apparently, a _boy_ living in a suburban wasteland with three horrible people she sincerely hoped he wasn't related to – maybe he was an unregistered immigrant? Or one of those white slaves you sometimes heard about on the BBC, but didn't want to believe really existed? She was, in punishment, given only the most charred bits and pieces for her own breakfast, which she ate anyway, because as soon as she smelled the bacon cooking, the hunger she had felt before she had woken up had come back in full force.

The man, Vernon, was reading the Daily Mail (which Hermione sniffed at, because _her_ parents read _real_ papers like the Observer and the Independent and sometimes even the Times), when the day's post was delivered. He didn't even look up to say, "Get the mail, Harry."

The fat boy, previously referred to only as 'poppet,' 'darling,' 'my boy,' or 'son,' didn't move. Neither did Hermione.

"Poke him with your Smelting stick, Dudley," the horrid man said, still from behind his 'paper.'

The fat boy – Dudley, apparently (she thought it rather suited him, the dumb, piggy creature) – banged a knobbly stick on the table, so Hermione made haste to fetch the post. The letters told her several things about her new predicament: Apparently the house was in Surrey, a town called Little Whinging. The people who lived in it were called the Dursleys. Apparently Vernon had a sister called Marge, who was vacationing on the Isle of Wight, and his wife was called Petunia. Harry was at least _not_ their son, because there was a letter to him specifically, its envelope made up of heavy, yellowish parchment, addressed to 'H. Potter' at _the cupboard under the stairs_ , and apparently hand-delivered as there was no stamp. This in turn implied that someone _knew_ Harry Potter was being kept _in a cupboard under the stairs_ and hadn't seen fit to do anything about it when they dropped off said letter. The day just kept getting stranger.

"Hurry up, boy! What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?"

"Erm, coming?" Hermione called back, shoving the letter to H. Potter into the pocket of the ridiculously oversized trousers she had found in his cupboard. They had to be hand-me-downs from the fat – _Dudley_ , she corrected herself.

She passed a brown bill-envelope and Marge Dursley's postcard to Vernon and grabbed an apple from the centerpiece. Before she could bite into it, Petunia snatched it away with a scandalized glare.

"Hey!"

"You'll eat what you're given, boy!"

"What? Are you _kidding_ me? I'm starving!" she snapped reflexively.

Apparently that was a wrong thing to say, because the woman back-handed her, faster than Hermione could see it coming. The pig sniggered, and the man actually looked over his paper to glare at her, too. Hermione, who had never been struck before in her life before that morning, gaped at the cow. "You should know better than to talk back by now! You're a burden on this house, and I'll thank you to appreciate the charity we've extended to you, out of the goodness of our hearts! And don't ask questions!"

The blatant stupidity of that statement was too much for Hermione to handle. "I'm sorry, _what_?" There was _no way_ the Dursleys' illegal servant-boy was any sort of a burden on a family with a house this nice. And their son weighed easily twice as much as she did: They clearly weren't pinched for food.

"Don't talk back to your Aunt, _boy_!" Vernon roared, "Or it's back to the cupboard for you!"

Hermione shut up, resolving to call Child Protective Services at the earliest opportunity. _His aunt?_ It was bad enough when she thought Harry Potter was not related to them, but to make their own _nephew_ sleep in a cupboard? Even if everything went back to normal tomorrow morning, or it turned out this was all some very strange dream (though it didn't feel like a dream), she didn't think she could face her mother, knowing she hadn't done something to fix the situation.

Fortunately, she had a _very_ good idea of how to do that.

 _ **Harry**_

Shortly after Harry and the Grangers returned to the Grangers' home and Harry escaped the adults' questioning by retreating to Hermione's room (which he tidied, for lack of anything better to do, or any other chores assigned), there was a knock at the front door.

Harry knew better than to answer the door unless specifically told to do so, so he lurked at the top of the stairs until he heard an older woman with a Scottish accent say, "Hello. Mr. Granger, is it?"

"Doctor, actually. My wife and I are dentists."

"I… see. Well. My name is Minerva McGonagall, and I am the Deputy Headmistress of a very special school for gifted children. Is your daughter Hermione available?"

 _Ha_ , Harry thought, even as he clattered down the stairs at Mr. (Dr.) Granger's shouted summons.

Deputy Headmistress McGonagall, an older woman in an equally old skirt-suit, was ushered into the den – a much cozier space than Aunt Petunia's 'parlor' – and the four of them sat, Harry rather on the edge of his seat. His only consolation was that it appeared the woman's visit was a surprise to Hermione's parents as well as to him. Introductions were conducted quickly and tea was offered and declined before Mrs. Granger said in what Harry suspected was meant to be a consoling tone, "Professor McGonagall, thank you for your school's interest in our daughter's education, but I'm not aware of any schools in the area who recruit students entering Year Eight?"

"Ah, well, I suppose we'd best get right down to it, then," the Professor said seriously. "This may be… difficult, for you to understand, and to accept, but I must ask you to bear with me, and let me explain fully before you ask your questions."

"Don't tell us, you're recruiting for some super-secret MI6 training programme or the like," Mr. Granger joked, lightening the mood only slightly.

"Not quite, Dr. Granger." The visitor took a deep breath. "I am a witch. My school, Hogwarts, specializes in training young witches and wizards, like your daughter, to control and practice their innate magical skills."

"You're having us on," Mrs. Granger accused.

"I'm afraid not," the 'witch' said with a somewhat rueful smile. And then she turned into a cat.

Mr. Granger reached out and petted it hesitantly. "It's a real cat, Emma!" he exclaimed.

The cat stalked away, to the middle of the room, before turning back into the witch with a small pop.

Harry felt his heart fall. Pinches or no pinches, he decided, this _had_ to be a dream. He said as much aloud, and was rewarded with a grin. "Oh, no, I assure you, Miss Granger, this is all _very real_. Have you never had something completely inexplicable happen around you? Objects floating, or perhaps setting on fire, or appearing when you needed them?"

Truth be told, strange things _had_ happened around Harry, but he could hardly admit he'd turned a teacher's wig blue, once, when he was currently pretending to be Hermione Granger. Presumably, though, she had done strange things before, too, because her parents exchanged worried looks, and then Mrs. Granger said, "All right, you have our attention."

 ** _Hermione_**

Hermione's day did _not_ improve after breakfast. She was thrown out of the house and ordered to weed the garden, which she did half-heartedly for twenty minutes or so before sneaking back inside. She had no idea which plants were weeds and which of the ones without flowers or vegetables were meant to be there, anyway.

She managed to find a bathroom and inspected her new appearance – green eyes, messy black hair, small and skinny, with a zig-zag scar on the forehead – for nearly five minutes before Harry's so-called aunt found her and yelled for the next half an hour about her tracking dirt through the house, and how she would clean it up and then get to her other chores _or else_.

Hermione couldn't see any dirt, herself, but she did as she was told, running the hoover under the cow's watchful gaze before she was dismissed with orders to 'tidy Dudley's _bedrooms_ ,' _plural_ and fetch all of the dirty laundry to be washed, and be quick about it.

This was the first opportunity she had had to see the upstairs, where she found to her complete disgust, there were _four_ bedrooms. _Four_. And all of them had beds! Even the one that was full of broken toys and things that clearly wasn't lived in! And they made their nephew sleep _under the stairs_! It was like something out of a Dickens novel! Honestly!

She gathered up a handful of Legos from the floor and slipped them under the fitted sheet in what was clearly the room where Dudley slept before shoving all of his remaining crap into the closet and under the bed. Sleeping on them probably wouldn't be anything near as bad as getting kicked in the ribs – they had bruised awfully – she had checked – but it made her feel a _bit_ better that he would get _some_ kind of comeuppance for his bullying.

She took her time finding the laundry and dragging baskets of soiled clothes to it, poking around between trips until she located a telephone directory. She hid in the loo while she memorized the number she needed, then began throwing things in the wash willy-nilly. She knew there was a proper way to do this, of course, but she couldn't care less if all their clothes ended up shrunken and somewhat grey.

The _next_ chore was to wash and shine all the windows in the house, which afforded her time to call the number, unobserved, from the living room telephone (which she dropped out the window and hid with behind a shrub). She rang off just before Petunia Dursley called her into the kitchen to make lunch (of which she was not allowed to eat anything, in retaliation for mucking up the wash) with a promise that the local children's welfare agency would send a Child Protection Team as soon as possible, and a reminder to call the police if she felt she was truly in immediate danger in the meanwhile. Then it was back to windows until it was time to serve tea to Petunia Dursley and her shrewish neighbors. She wore a smug smile inside, imagining their reactions when they found out that Harry Potter was made to sleep in a bloody cupboard.

At half past four, Ms. Melissa Prospect and Mr. Kenneth Gibbs knocked on the door, and the day finally started to look up.

 _ **Harry**_

Professor McGonagall gave her spiel, outlining all the options for a 'muggleborn' witch and why Hogwarts was clearly the best, then left the Grangers to consider what they should do next, asking them to send a form to the school by the end of the month with their decision.

Harry was feeling a bit overwhelmed, between waking up as a girl with a proper family and then finding out that the weird things he could do were _magic_. He had no doubt at all that that's what it _was_ , when he suddenly appeared on the school roof that one time, or turned his teacher's hair blue, and it _had_ to be magic talking to snakes, like at the zoo, because snakes simply didn't talk. And Hermione's parents seemed to think that she had had weird things happen, too. It didn't take much to put two and two together and figure that whatever was going on, if he suddenly had always been a girl, or if he had somehow switched places with one, that _that_ was magic, too.

That realization was immediately followed by a spike of fear – what if it wore off? Would he just go straight back to the Dursleys? And then guilt – was Hermione, the real Hermione, somehow stuck with them instead, right now? He hated living with them: Hermione's parents were _much_ nicer. But he wouldn't wish his life on her instead, just so _he_ could get out of it. He resolutely pushed that train of thought away. If it turned out Hermione was walking around in his body, somehow, there was nothing _he_ could think to do about it, seeing as he had no idea what had happened in the first place. And what if he told someone? They'd think he – or rather, Hermione – had gone mad.

The only thing to do, Harry realized, was to continue pretending to be Hermione, and enjoy it while it lasted. True, it was a little weird being a girl (okay, more than a little – he hadn't sat down to pee in _years_ ), but that was more than made up for by the bedroom, and the books and the food and the kind parents (though it was a little creepy how concerned they were over his education – was that _normal_?), and the complete lack of chores and Dudley and Dursleys in general. This could be, he thought optimistically, the best summer holiday he'd ever had.

That said, he was fully in favor of Hogwarts. Of course, it was probably much more likely that when he went to sleep, he would wake up in his own cupboard again, but on the off-chance that he didn't, he decided it would probably be easiest to pretend to be Hermione at a boarding school, far away from her overly-attentive parents.

Unfortunately the overly-attentive parents in question were very reluctant to have their daughter move so far away, for much the same reason they had been reluctant to let her move ahead a year in school – apparently they thought she was too stressed, and that it would be better to keep her close to home. Harry tried making the argument that boarding school would be a good opportunity to socialize, like they had said they wanted Hermione to do in the earlier meeting, but Mr. Granger had responded with an argument about the fact that Hogwarts didn't cover any normal subjects like English and maths, so after lunch, Harry had made a strategic retreat to Hermione's room under cover of having a sulk.

He didn't want to spend what might very well be his only day of freedom from his normal life arguing about whether he really needed to learn maths in the near or distant future. Instead, he lazed, reading a novel curled up in Hermione's enormous, fluffy bed, and then watching the neighborhood children playing some sort of game in the cul-de-sac outside her window. It was, all in all, _brilliant_.

 _ **Hermione**_

Hermione was Not Pleased. It hadn't been _too_ difficult to convince the Child Protection Team that Harry Potter was mistreated, nor, when she showed Mr. Gibbs the bruise on her ribs, that she feared his 'family's' retaliation for asking for help. She had been placed in protective custody for the duration of the investigation of the Dursleys, and taken to a rather rundown halfway-house sort of place, with four other children who were somehow involved in the foster-care system (she didn't really know how all of that worked – all that had been said in the school programme on child abuse was to call the children's welfare office or the police, or talk to a teacher if they or any of their friends were being hurt at home – and no one had sat down with her yet to explain what happened next) and a kindly if overworked matron. All in all, she felt, that was the best she could have hoped for, given the circumstances.

Prospect and Gibbs had almost bought Petunia's claims that Harry was a liar, and that they only asked him to do a bit of work around the house, especially since Hermione didn't _act_ like a habitually-abused child, but then they had found the cupboard under the stairs, and on returning home from work, Vernon had not been able to conceal his rage at finding officials investigating him for child abuse. It hadn't taken much acting at all to cringe fearfully away from the man who had thrown her into a wall just that morning.

Still, she was away from them now, and that was what mattered.

No, what she was _displeased_ about was the letter to Mr. H. Potter, addressed to the cupboard under the stairs and apparently hand-delivered, which she had stuffed into a pocket and forgotten about in the breakfast hubbub and her subsequent plans to call the authorities on the Dursleys. She didn't remember it until she was shucking off the ridiculously oversized clothes to wash what had to be at least two days' grime from Harry's too-skinny body. It crinkled, drawing her attention, and she sat on the toilet to read it while the room slowly filled with steam.

*~v^v~*

 _HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY_

 _Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

 _Dear Mr. Potter,_

 _We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

 _Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Minerva McGonagall,_

 _Deputy Headmistress_

*~^v^~*

She had taken rather longer than she otherwise might have done in the shower, considering the contents of the 'acceptance letter.'

She did not doubt the existence of magic as she might have done had the letter arrived one day earlier. Magic was, all things considered, a relatively reasonable explanation for why she had woken up as a boy and spent the day escaping his abusive relatives. Plus it would explain the small, otherwise inexplicable things that had slowly been driving her mad over the years – from pens appearing in her hand when she needed them to all the electrics flickering in time to her breathing and heartbeat last Christmas. (She couldn't wait to rub it in her parents' faces that she wasn't, in fact, going daft from stress, and that the psychologist they'd forced her to talk to was, as she had _told_ them after her very first appointment, full of shite.)

She didn't think much of wizards and witches, though. This was a bloody stupid way to find out about magic being real. There was no way the Dursleys had magic – there was something that _screamed_ boring and average about them. Even if they had, it was patently absurd to simply deliver a letter like this – it hardly counted as a _letter_ , anyway – the Headmaster's titles took up nearly as many lines as the body of it for heaven's sake – and expect a student to respond with their final decision on their schooling only a week and a half later. Where were the brochures? The _literature_? _Maidstone Grammar_ had put more effort into recruiting her, and they weren't even independent! And 'we await your owl?' Did they mean like the _bird_? What did _birds_ have to do with _anything_? Was there no way to meet this Headmaster or Deputy Head or even a _Professor_ to talk about the courses offered and the different _options_ for magical education? It didn't even say where the school was located or how to get there if she _did_ decide she wanted to attend!

The sad thing was, if things hadn't gone back to normal by morning, she was quite sure she _did_ want to, regardless of how utterly incompetent the school's management seemed, because who _outside_ of a magic school was going to believe that Hermione Granger, a girl whose parents owned a dental practice in Kent, had suddenly and mysteriously awoken in Surrey _as a boy_ , just in time to receive an invitation to said magical school?

Then there was the issue of what to do with the damn thing. She debated this for nearly fifteen minutes, standing under the hot spray and doing her best to ignore the _significant differences_ between this body and her own (so far as she was concerned, the only real _improvement_ was that Harry's hair seemed like it might be _slightly_ more manageable than hers). On the one hand, it didn't seem like the sort of thing she ought to be flashing around, and she had already realized that the other kids at the house were a nosy lot. Plus it was so brief as to be completely useless, and she'd already memorized it, which argued she ought to just throw it out. But on the other, it was addressed to _the cupboard under the stairs_ , and if she ever found a way to contact the school and get this mess sorted out, she wanted to show whomever was in charge and give them a piece of her mind about their delivery service not knocking on the bloody door when they saw an address like _that_.

By the time the hot water ran out, she had decided to keep the letter, but try to keep it out of sight if at all possible. She really didn't like it when people asked her questions she couldn't answer, and there was no way she could explain what it was all about, seeing as she had no idea herself. Fortunately, in the excitement of getting her settled in and then a (rather late) dinner, no one noticed that she had put on the same too-large trousers instead of the pocketless pajama bottoms she had been offered instead.

 _ **Harry**_

Harry Potter went to sleep in a large, comfortable bed just outside of Maidstone, in a room filled with more books than he had ever known one person to own, after what he thought easily qualified as the best day he had ever had. He was warm, well-fed, had been invited to a magical academy, and had somehow acquired parents who cared enough about his future that they were worried about how he would handle boarding school. They didn't give him any chores, and had even called him down for dinner even though he had argued with them and pretended to sulk all afternoon. Becoming a girl seemed a small price to pay for all that.

 _Please, please, please,_ he thought desperately as he fell asleep, _if this is a dream, don't let me wake up._

He was overjoyed in the morning to see that it was, apparently, still not a dream at all.

 _ **Hermione**_

Meanwhile, Hermione Granger drifted off with great difficulty, in a room with two "other" boys – one about her age and one at least a few years younger. The mattress was lumpy and the little one, Johnny, snored. She desperately hoped that when she woke up, she would be back in her familiar bedroom, or at least in her own body.

 _Failing that_ , she dictated to the universe, or God, or anyone who might be listening, _I'd_ rather appreciate _if someone from this magic school would actually show up so I can get this fixed as soon as possible!_

It would be a week and a half until _she_ got _her_ wish.


	41. Mindswap 3

**Harry Potter's Birthday – Wednesday, 31 July 1991**

 _ **Harry**_

Harry woke early on what was, until nine days before, his birthday. He was sure that this would be the best birthday he had ever had, seeing as it wasn't about to be spent with the Dursleys, even if it likely wouldn't be celebrated any more than the last ten had been. No, the most important thing about the last day of July in the _Granger_ household was that it was the last possible day to send in the acceptance paperwork to Hogwarts.

On waking up the morning after what Harry was beginning to think of as That Day, and realizing that he was still in Hermione Granger's body, living Hermione Granger's life, he decided to embrace the weirdness. He had spent the last week getting to know her parents, begging and wheedling and negotiating to be allowed to go to Hogwarts, and they had, just the night before, agreed that they would send the paperwork to reserve a spot for their daughter in the incoming class, though they were still talking about other options when he had gone to bed, including a day-school called Merlin's Legacy Secondary and a French boarding school called Beauxbatons, which they'd found in a book called _An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe._ Deputy Headmistress McGonagall had (somewhat reluctantly) sent them the book by _owl,_ which the Grangers had found charming, but odd. Harry had thought it was wicked.

He was still pulling for Hogwarts, largely because he didn't speak a word of French. He gathered that Hermione did, however, and he was having trouble finding excuses to go to a school that was actually further away, in Scotland, without admitting that he 'didn't remember' any of it. Fortunately, the French academy also had a sort of primary school attached, so the Grangers were concerned that 'Year 7' or the equivalent might not be taught the basics properly if most students had had a magical primary education.

A soft knock at his door startled him, just before the handle turned. "Hermione? Are you awake?" Hermione's mother asked, entering cautiously.

"What? Um, yeah – that is, yes mum." It was still very strange calling anyone 'mum.'

"Why don't you come downstairs, then? Your father and I have something we'd like to talk to you about."

"Okaaay," Harry said, drawing the word out suspiciously. "Be right down."

Mrs. Granger grinned. "See you in a minute, then."

Harry donned the robe and slippers he'd found crushed at the back of Hermione's overly-full closet when he had first tidied her room properly. The Grangers had been a bit surprised that he had taken the time to do so, and even more surprised when he had moved on to the rest of the house and then the back garden, but what else was he supposed to do while they were at work? He had met the neighborhood children, too, and learnt their game (a sort of kickball version of cricket, which he was quite good at, if he said so himself, even in Hermione's body, which was rather less fit than his own), but they couldn't play all day, and he felt terribly guilty just sitting around reading novels when there was work that could be done. He found he didn't mind doing it, either. Mrs. Granger, Emma, worked far harder than Aunt Petunia, and had actually _thanked_ him for doing the laundry on Thursday.

He reached the kitchen only a few seconds behind Emma, to find that the adults had already eaten. Dan was pulling a plate of re-heated French toast out of the microwave for him.

"Thanks!" he exclaimed, still not used to the idea that Hermione's father did the cooking.

Both parents grinned. "Have a seat, love," Emma said, as she and her husband settled across from Harry.

"We're going to have to make this quick, Em," Dan announced, checking his watch. "We need to leave in about ten minutes."

"All right, Danny, don't fuss, we won't be late." She turned to Harry. "Hermione, your father and I are very impressed with how you've handled yourself this last week."

"You've been out making friends with the other kids."

"You've done all your chores and more – without me having to remind you."

"You haven't tried to use that as a bargaining chip," Dan added with a grin. His wife smacked his arm playfully.

"Don't give her ideas, Dan."

"You've made good arguments for Hogwarts, but even before that, you were willing to compromise on jumping ahead in your studies, which we both think shows a great improvement in your maturity since the end of last year."

"Um… thank you?" Harry tried tentatively. He hadn't really thought of his actions as mature at all – he had just been desperately trying not to draw attention to the fact that he wasn't really their daughter.

Dan smiled and winked, "I don't know what you've been thinking, kid, but keep up the good work."

Emma laughed. "Anyway, given that, and the fact that, in light of the fact that, well, Doctor Schmalle was obviously wrong about the reason behind your funny turns, if you really want Hogwarts, well…"

"You're going to let me go?!"

"I should hope so. I sent the papers off this morning," Dan joked.

Harry leapt up and ran around the table to throw his arms around the couple he was quickly coming to see as _his_ parents. "You two are the _best_!"

"There will be some conditions, though, Missy," Emma said, after returning the hug and kissing Harry on the side of his bushy head. "We want letters, every week!"

" _And_ we expect you to keep up with your normal studies as well," Dan added. "We'll not have our daughter failing her qualifications out here in the real world, just because she's suddenly discovered she's _also_ a witch."

"Done! I can do that!" Harry promised, his heart flying at the thought of learning magic.

"Good," Dan laughed, "because I've already sent off the papers for that, too – a correspondence course recommended by that wizards' ministry of theirs, covers O levels and A levels, so you'll be able to go to uni once you've got the magic thing under control."

Harry wasn't at all sure he wanted to go to uni if there was more magic to be learned after Hogwarts, but that was years away, and he did appreciate the fact that Dan was keeping all of his options open for him. He hadn't even known that was a thing, correspondence courses. Maybe he could catch up on the Year 7 stuff Hermione had learned but he hadn't, too. "Thanks, dad! That sounds brilliant!"

Dan ruffled his hair as Harry realized, "Does that mean we're going to Diagon Alley for all those books and robes and things?!"

"Not today, love," Emma said kindly. "Remember Professor McGonagall said there's a trip planned for students from our world? We'll meet up with them on Saturday."

"Promise?"

"We promise," Dan agreed. "Already arranged the day off. Boss is a bit of a stubborn wench, but I think I managed to convince her," he added with a wink. Harry giggled. Emma was in charge of scheduling for their practice, which they owned. It was easy for them to take a day off – they just had to re-schedule their appointments.

Emma gave him a fake glare, "Well, your boss is going to be very upset if you miss your first appointment, so we'd best get going."

Dan looked at his watch again and yelped. "You said we weren't going to be late!"

"The way you drive, we won't be," Emma smirked. "Bye, Jeanie. We'll be back in time for your father to make lasagna tonight."

"Alright," Harry agreed, allowing them each another hug. "Bye mum, bye dad! Have a good day!"

He locked the door behind them, before spending ten minutes dancing and sliding around the kitchen in Hermione's fuzzy pink slippers. _Best birthday_ _ever_ _!_ And it wasn't even seven, yet.

 _ **Dumbledore**_

Many hundreds of miles away, Albus Dumbledore meandered in what he considered a relatively casual, harmless way, from his own office, down the spiral staircase, down two more flights of stairs, through three corridors and up a small tower on the other side of the castle. The official office of the Deputy Head of Hogwarts appeared to be abandoned. Not entirely surprising, as it was only half-past six, and Minerva only maintained this office for the sake of formality, anyway, preferring the more centrally located Office of the Head of Transfiguration as her main base of operations.

"Minerva, are you in?" he called, just to be sure. There was no answer, so he let himself in and rifled through the papers on the desk until he located the one he was interested in: the Incoming Students list. So far, it appeared that thirty-seven of the forty-two invited students had responded with affirmative confirmations. He ran his finger down the list:

 _Patil, Patil, Perks, Rivers, Roper_ …

The one name he most wanted to see – the most important student who was to attend Hogwarts beginning this year – wasn't there.

He shuffled through the papers again, until he came to the Delivery Confirmation list. Harry Potter's name was listed there in green ink – he had, at the very least, received and opened his letter. (This, Dumbledore admitted, was slightly more surprising. He might have suspected the Dursleys of withholding it entirely, but not of allowing the boy to read it, and then failing to respond in any way.)

He steepled his fingers and tapped them against his lip, pacing the office as he pondered this problem: Harry Potter had to come to Hogwarts, and today was the acceptance deadline. Someone would simply have to go fetch him – the real question was _who_?

Properly speaking, it was Minerva's job to introduce new muggleborns to the magical world, but Harry Potter wasn't, properly speaking, a muggleborn. Plus there was the small matter of the fact that he had… heavily implied several years before that he had removed the boy from the Dursleys' care, 'as befit the Heir of the Noble House of Potter and the savior of Magical Britain.' His deputy would not be best pleased to discover that he had concealed the fact that he hadn't looked in on the boy in person in over five years, let alone moved him once the threat of imminent Death Eater attack had passed.

He could do it himself, but it had been nearly forty years since he had dealt with the muggle world in any capacity whatsoever, and while it might kindly dispose the boy toward him if he was the one who introduced him to magic, there was a distinct possibility that the Dursleys, whom he recalled having written several letters attempting to refuse the boy houseroom, would be belligerent if he were to appear on their doorstep. It would not be a good first impression.

Ideally it should be someone with more recent Muggle experience, anyway.

Pierce, the Muggle Studies professor, was a pureblood, and knew little more about muggles than the Examination Board demanded he teach. Pomona, of course, was muggleborn, but she was only a few years younger than he was himself, and it had been even longer since she had dealt with the muggle world. Septima would have been perfect – Albus vaguely recalled that the young Ravenclaw Arithmancy professor was muggle-raised. But she was at some advanced arithmancy conference on the continent.

He briefly considered ordering Severus to do it – making Severus deal with it was, he cheerfully admitted, his strategic response to any complex problem he didn't want to deal with himself. If by some miracle the lad survived the end of the war, he would be a capable successor as Headmaster eventually. Plus he was muggle-raised, as well. But no, either the Slytherin would have a fit on coming face to face with the boy who, when Albus had last checked, was growing into the spitting image of James Potter, or he would convince the boy to favor Slytherin, just to spite Albus. Maybe both.

Aurora was out for a similar reason – pity there were so few qualified astronomy instructors. He would love to dismiss the young hag. He had nothing against feminism as a general concept, but in practice, he found its practitioners _incredibly inconvenient_. She was still holding that whole nasty Stryke business from two years ago against him.

That left… Filius, perhaps? At least he knew about the difficulties of assimilating. But then, if Albus was going to send someone obviously not-human, he might as well send _Hagrid_. The half-giant would be strongly inclined to talk up both Albus and Gryffindor, at least. Actually… the more he thought of it, the more he liked that idea. There was certainly no one friendlier or more welcoming, and Albus was willing to bet that he would jump at the chance to re-introduce Harry to magic. He would probably tell the boy a few stories about his parents, have him begging to be a lion in no time at all.

Yes, Hagrid it would be.

Albus approached the Quill, vibrating slightly on its mirrored plinth, its scrying-spells, the strongest in Magical Britain, tuned specifically to identify the location of a given student (or potential student) at any time, and used the Headmaster's Override to obtain a new copy of Harry Potter's letter. The address, he noted, did not match the one in Surrey where he had left the babe, but the wards had not broken. Perhaps the family were on holiday? If so, that would go a good way to explaining why they hadn't yet responded, but it really was a matter of some urgency to attain that confirmation. He would send Hagrid anyway, he decided, and began to make his way out to the grounds, whistling merrily.

 ** _Hermione_**

Hermione had been at the short-term home for just over a week. It was… vaguely unpleasant in nearly every possible way. Matron Caraway was far stricter than her parents, and there were more chores than she had to do at home, and only a few old, very careworn novels to read (none of which was new to Hermione). The beds were uncomfortable and the food was either bland or overcooked or both at every meal, and the building itself was rather run-down and dingy. The children were not allowed to go out without an adult, and Matron Caraway only ever went to Tesco's, so for the most part, they were all trapped in the house or its overgrown garden.

She had gotten to know Katie (who was fifteen and thought herself very grown-up) and Darnell (who was twelve, and had decided that 'Harry' was his new best friend), quite well as they explained how the foster system in general and Caraway House in particular worked, at least from the children's perspective. She had spent more than a few evenings hiding herself away in the bathroom or the garden, vacillating between tears and rage as she tried in vain to figure out what was happening to her and wondered if her parents were missing her, but on the whole, she thought she was coping quite well. She found it helped when she told herself that this was like falling into one of her fantasy novels. She just had to wait for whatever happened next to… happen.

On the second Wednesday of her stay, the day CPS's paperwork claimed was Harry Potter's eleventh birthday, at half-past eight, there was a strange knock at the door. It was, she thought, both unusually heavy and insistent, but oddly hesitant.

Hermione rolled her eyes and hauled herself off the sofa, abandoning her fourth re-read of an old Terry Pratchett novel. She couldn't really concentrate on it, anyway. "Got it!" she shouted to the house at large – though most of them were still abed – as she moved to the front hall. It was probably good that she did, as the man responsible for the loud-yet-hesitant knocking was decidedly unusual.

He was at least nine feet tall, and probably, Hermione thought, more than three feet wide. There was no way he would fit easily through a normal doorway. He was dressed in what seemed to be a hand-made fur overcoat, and enormous workman's trousers and boots. His hair and beard were dark, wild, and unkempt. He carried, rather incongruously, a flowered, pink umbrella, and what appeared to be a bakery box. She knew instinctively that he had something to do with _magic_.

"Harry Potter!" he boomed, as soon as Hermione opened the door, "Las' time I saw you, you was only a baby, but I'd know tha' face anywhere! Jes like yer dad, with yer mum's eyes."

Hermione peered closely at the enormous face, hovering high above her. Were those _tears_? "Forgive me," she said as politely as she could, "but I don't recall having been introduced?"

The giant man beamed, and held the box out to Hermione. She took it, and quickly found her whole right arm being shaken. "Th' name's Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys an' Grounds at Hogwarts."

"Hogwarts?! As in Hogwarts, school of Witchcraft and Wizardry?" Hermione asked. It made sense that he was magical, but the school had sent a _groundskeeper_ to tell her about it? And on the last possible day?

"Well, yeah. Don' reckon there's more'n one _Hogwarts_ out there…"

Hermione looked up and down the street. They were starting to draw attention from some of the neighbors, and she had a feeling that this was going to be a rather long discussion. "We should move to the garden," she said firmly, leading the bemused giant around the side of Caraway House to a pair of solid, concrete benches.

Once he had settled (and sitting, he was still slightly taller than Hermione standing), the man said, "So, yeh do know abou' Hogwarts, then? Dumbledore said you'd got yer letter, an' hadn' sent word back, so's he sen' me roun' ter check up on yeh. Got business in London, anyways, so I ken take yeh ter ge' yer things 's'well, if yeh like."

"All _I_ know," Hermione said tartly, "is what's written in that paltry excuse for a letter! ' _We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.'_ " she quoted with a derisive snort. "Three sets of robes with nametags and a pointed hat _for daywear_ suggests that it's a boarding school, yes? And there are classes in astronomy, history, potions, magical theory, transfiguration, magical plants and animals, and some kind of self-defense course? But what about maths? English? Science? I was supposed to start Earth sciences this year! And where is this school, anyway? How many hours of classes are there per week, and how many students in each class? Are there houses? How often are home visits? Do you have telephones? I didn't see a number. And for _that_ matter, how was I supposed to let you know whether I wanted to attend or not? Today is the acceptance deadline, and you're the first representative I've spoken to. Why didn't they send a real professor? Um, no offence." Hermione stopped for breath, pacing before the big man in agitation. She couldn't really be expected to make a well-informed decision on so little information, could she?

Hagrid blinked. "Erm, so… yeh _don'_ know abou' Hogwarts, then?"

"NO! Isn't that what I've been saying? Listen, are there _other_ schools of magic? Because, again, no offence, but I can't say I think much of your school's professionalism. Though I suppose none of the others even _tried_ to get in contact, so… hmm."

"Harry Potter, _not_ go ter Hogwarts? Bu' yer name's been down ever since ye were born! The whole worl's expectin' ye ter come back!"

"The whole world? Why should anyone care where one tw – _eleven_ year old goes to school?" That was a close one. Her own birthday was in September, so she was almost a full year older than Harry.

Hagrid glowered. "Ain't those muggles ye live with tol' ye nothin'?"

"What's a muggle?" It sounded like a sort of sheep.

"Non-magic folk," the man glowered. "Like yer aunt an' uncle. Them _Dursleys_. Where are they, anyway? Dumbledore said they might make trouble."

"They're not in the picture," Hermione said firmly. "They were making me sleep in the cupboard under the stairs. I've been taken into child protection." At the look of surprise on the man's large, hairy face, she added, "Didn't you know? This is a foster home."

A clearly embarrassed, uncomfortable Hagrid pulled a parchment envelope out of a pocket and handed it over. "Tha's all I got," he said. "Dumbledore figured th' family was on vacation or summat."

Hermione snorted. Somehow she didn't think the Dursleys were the sort to go on vacation – not with Harry, at least. _This_ letter was addressed to 'Mr. H. Potter, The Boys' Bedroom, Caraway House, 17546 Ash Ave., Harringay, London.' When she broke the seal, however, the letter it contained was exactly the same. Hermione studied it silently for a moment while she marshalled her thoughts, re-running the last several minutes' conversation in her mind.

"You haven't answered my questions," she said sharply. "Why does anyone care where I go to school?"

"Wha – blimey, Harry, I – I shouldn' be th' one ter tell yeh, bu' someone has ter… Yer famous, in our world. In the magical world. Every witch an' wizard knows yer name – every child's grown up with stories abou' yeh. Harry Potter, not knowin' nothin' about magic – it'll be th' bigges' scandal…"

"What?" Hermione asked flatly. "Why am I famous?" Surely if Harry was _famous_ he wouldn't have been left to live with abusive relatives (and she definitely hadn't missed the fact that Hagrid had skirted over that little revelation). "Are you sure you haven't got the wrong Harry Potter?" she added.

"Naw, ye look jes' like James an' Lily, it's jus'… The muggles never tol' ye _nothin_ ' abou' yer parents?"

Hermione shook her head silently, thanking her lucky stars that the giant had given her an excuse for not knowing anything.

"Well, it's… it's like this. Blimey, this is difficult. Alrigh'. Back about twen'y years ago, now, there was a wizard who wen'… bad. As bad as you could go. Worse. Worse than worse. His name was…" Hagrid gulped, but no words came out.

" _Yes_?"

" _Voldemor'_ ," Hagrid whispered, looking around furtively.

"Sorry?"

"Voldemor'. Don' make me say it again!"

" _Vol de mort_?" Hermione repeated, putting a practiced French accent behind the name. "Flying from death? Or stealing from death? Something like that? That isn't his real name, is it?"

"Wha'?"

"Never mind. What about," she sniggered, "Monsieur Voldemort?"

"Don' _ye_ go sayin' th' name, either," Hagrid said sternly. "Call 'im You Know Who – everybody does."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Fine. What about _You Know Who_?"

" _Well_ , a bit more'n twen'y years ago, 'e started lookin' fer followers. Got 'em, too. Some were afraid. Some jes' wanted a bit o' 'is power, 'cause 'e was gettin' himself power, all right. Dark days, Harry. Didn' know who ter trust, didn' dare get friendly with strange wizards or witches… terrible things happened. He was takin' over. 'Course, some stood up to him – an' he killed 'em. Horribly. One o' the only safe places left was Hogwarts. Reckon Dumbledore's the only one You Know Who was afraid of."

"The… Headmaster?" Hermione asked skeptically.

"Yeah," Hagrid beamed. "O'course! Great man, Dumbledore! Defeated Grindelwald back in th' day, didn' 'e? Righ' powerful wizard, an' leader o' th' Light!"

"O…kay…"

"Righ', so… yer mum an' dad were as good a witch an' wizard as I ever knew. Head boy an' girl at Hogwarts in their day! Suppose the myst'ry is why You Know Who never tried to get 'em on his side before. Probably knew they were too close ter Dumbledore ter wan' anythin' ter do with the Dark Side." Hermione suppressed a snort at the (most likely unintentional) Star Wars reference.

"Maybe he thought he could persuade 'em," Hagrid continued. "Maybe he jus' wanted 'em outta the way. All anyone knows is, he turned up in the village where you was all livin', on Halloween, ten years ago. You was just a year old. He came ter yer house an'… an'…"

" _And_?"

Hagrid pulled a very large, very dirty, spotted handkerchief out of a pocket, and blew his nose with a sound like a foghorn.

"Sorry, bu' it's tha' sad. Knew yer mum an' dad, an' nicer people yeh couldn' find. Anyway. You Know Who killed 'em. An' then, an' this is the real myst'ry of the thing – he tried ter kill you, too. Wanted ter make a clean job of it, I suppose, or maybe he jus' liked killin' by then. But he couldn' do it. Never wondered how you got that mark on yer forehead? That was no ordinary cut. That's what yeh get when a powerful, evil curse touches yeh. Took care of yer mum an' dad an' yer house, even – but it didn't work on you, an' that's why yer famous, Harry. No one ever lived after he decided ter kill 'em, no one except you, an' he'd killed some o' the best witches and wizards of the age – the McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewetts – an' you was only a baby, an' you lived."

Hermione strongly considered saying ' _what?'_ again, but there was something dangerously close to hero-worship in the big man's eyes. Perhaps… later. She did feel for him, after all, having to tell his friends' son about their murder.

"Took yeh from the ruined house mesel', on Dumbledore's orders. Brought yeh ter, well…"

So it was _Dumbledore's_ fault that Famous Wizard Baby Harry Potter had been left with an abusive, non-magical aunt and uncle. That settled it – she would be going to Hogwarts, if only to have _words_ with this _Dumbledore_.

"So, ah… that's it, then? H – um, _my_ parents and M. Voleur all died on Halloween in… 1981? And the war was over? And H – I became famous, and was left to be raised by, what did you call them? Mumbles?"

"Muggles," Hagrid corrected. "An', well, You Know Who, 'e disappeared. Vanished. Makes ye' even more famous. An' yeah, there's some as says 'e's dead. Codswallop, in my opinion. Don' reckon e' had enough human left in 'im ter die. An' others say 'e's still ou' there, bidin' 'is time, like. Don' believe tha', neither. People who was on his side came back ter ours. Some of 'em came outta kinda trances. Don' reckon they could've done if he was comin' back. Most of us reckon he's still out there, somewhere, but lost his powers. Too weak to carry on. 'Cause somethin' abou' you finished 'im, Harry. There was somethin' goin' on that night he hadn't counted on. Dunno what it was – no one does – but somethin' about you stumped him, all righ'."

Hermione refrained, with difficulty, from rolling her eyes. Something going on of a Halloween that the evil wizard hadn't accounted for, _that_ she could possibly believe. But that he had been defeated by a one-year-old baby? _Fat. Chance_. And how could someone 'not have enough human left in him to die'? She would, she thought, have to ask this Dumbledore when she caught up to him.

Hagrid was looking at her with that same almost-worshipful expression, and the silence between them was becoming awkward, but she didn't really know what to say, mostly because she wasn't really Harry Potter, and it wasn't _her_ parents' deaths he had been telling her about. "Okay, then… um… thanks for telling me?"

The giant nodded. "'s the leas' I could do fer yeh."

"Um… right. So, about Hogwarts?" she asked awkwardly.

"Bes' school o' magic there is!" Hagrid said proudly, obviously pleased for the subject change.

Hermione sighed. Of course he would say that. "And I don't suppose you can answer any of my questions about classes or the like? What about tuition and fees? Are there scholarships and the like for orphans? Because I haven't got any money."

"D'yeh not think yer parent's left ye nothin'? Tuition's paid – nobody'd turn away Harry Potter. An' I got yer Gringott's key with me. Wizards' bank, ye know."

"Um… no? Why've you got my key?"

"Well, Dumbledore gave it ter me, didn' 'e? Got ter make a stop in fer 'im, as well. Hogwarts business."

"Why did _Dumbledore_ , oh, _never mind_." That was just one more thing to add to her growing mental list. "So you've just popped in to take me shopping for school supplies, is that it? Not to actually tell me anything about the school, or ask whether I'd even like to go?" Not that she was opposed, but the implication that she didn't have any sort of choice in the matter was infuriating.

"Wha – don' yeh _wan'_ ter learn magic?"

Hermione sighed at the man's baffled expression. _Utterly useless._ "Of course I do. Hang on, I'll go tell Ms. Caraway that I'm going out."

She stomped into the house, thinking quickly as she dropped off what turned out to be a chocolate cake in the kitchen. What would be an acceptable excuse to go out? She had already been to the doctor, the dentist, the optometrist and the child psychologist, so none of them would do… And how was she to deal with the logistics of actually going to a boarding school on the first of September? Surely someone would notice she had gone missing? Did the wizards have a solution for that? She would have to find someone more official to ask. Hagrid seemed nice enough, but he _was_ just a groundskeeper, and he didn't seem to know _anything_ about the actual details of _going_ to the school.

"Ms. Caraway? A Mr. Hagrid from the Little Whinging Police Department is here. They need me to come answer some more questions about, um…"

The old woman in charge of the house smiled warmly at Hermione. "Of course, dear. Did they say when they'd be bringing you back?"

"Well," Hermione hedged, "I should expect it will be late, since it's, um, a bit of a drive. I shouldn't wait dinner. I'm sure they'll feed me at the station, you know, if need be."

"All right, then. Best of luck." Hermione fancied there was something like pity in the matron's eyes as she fled the room.

…

Travelling to London was a nightmare. Hagrid was oddly reticent about how he'd managed to get to Caraway House, which suggested to Hermione that he'd done something he wasn't supposed to, but she couldn't imagine what that was. Instead of whatever mysterious, forbidden mode of travel he had used before, they took the train in, and then the underground. Both were full of commuters who couldn't help but stare at the enormous man in his enormous fur coat. Hermione had to do all of the navigating between lines, and deal with the money, which Hagrid complained all looked the same. It was with great relief that she eventually led him up a broken escalator at Charring Cross Road.

"Where to now, Hagrid?" she asked, any honorifics long since lost to her irritation with her oversized escort.

"This way," he said, obviously recognizing his surroundings. He parted the crowd easily, and Hermione trailed in his wake. "This is it," he said eventually, coming to a halt in front of a rather grubby-looking pub. "The Leaky Cauldron. It's a famous place." Hermione didn't have it in her to ask why.

The inside didn't look much better than the outside. It was dark and shabby. A few young women were sitting at a table near the back door, sipping tea, surrounded by shopping bags. A tiny man in a lavender top hat was talking to the old, bald bartender. The low buzz of chatter stopped when they walked in, as everyone looked around to greet Hagrid. He was, apparently, a regular.

"The usual, Hagrid?" the barkeep asked, already reaching for a glass.

"It's not even ten," Hermione said, slightly appalled.

Hagrid patted her reassuringly on the back, which sent her staggering forward. "Can't anyway, Tom, I'm on Hogwarts business."

And then Tom spotted Hermione. "Good Lord. Is this – can this be? Bless my soul, Harry Potter, what an honor." He tottered around the bar and grabbed Hermione's hand moistly, tears in his eyes. "Welcome back, Mr. Potter. Welcome back!"

"Thank you, sir," Hermione said stiffly, resisting the urge to wipe her hand on her shirt. Everyone was staring at her. This was not exactly a _new_ sensation – she was notorious at school for being the smartest girl in Year 7 (and possibly Year 8 as well), which attracted a certain amount of attention – but it was still awkward for so many adults to be staring so intently, all at once. And then there was a great scraping of chairs, and she was passed from one person to the next, their names washing over her in a blur as they seized her hand and touched her shoulders and looked at her in awe. It was, in a word, horrifying.

Mrs. Crockford, Mr. Brown, Mrs. Abbott, Mrs. Madden, and Mr. Diggle all crowded around, shouting, for nearly ten minutes before Hagrid bellowed over the crowd, "Must get on, lots ter buy. Come on, Harry," and led Hermione out the back door of the bar, into a small walled courtyard, which contained nothing but a trash can and a few weeds.

"Told yeh, didn't I? Told yeh you was famous." Hagrid was grinning broadly.

Hermione scowled. "Yes, you did. Was that _necessary?_ "

"Wha'?" Hagrid looked innocently confused.

"The whole, 'I've brought your savior back to you' thing?"

"Wha'd'yeh mean?"

"Oh, never mind. Where do we go from here?"

Hagrid grinned again. "Jes' watch." He counted three bricks up from the trash can and two over, then tapped that one with the point of his umbrella. It quivered and wriggled, a small hole appearing in the center, growing wider and wider until, a few seconds later, they were standing before an archway, large enough even for Hagrid. On the other side was a cobblestone street, full of people. Hermione gaped.

"Welcome," said Hagrid, "to Diagon Alley!"

There was too much to see – it was simply overwhelming. Hermione's eyes roamed over the alley and its people (all in robes, with pointed hats and canes, or dresses that looked positively Victorian), cataloguing the items for sale (cauldrons, dragon liver, owls – what was _with_ the _owls_ , anyway? – robes, telescopes, flying broomsticks, spell books, quills, parchment), the shop-fronts and the street (almost but not quite like the architecture from the 1600s – it was all too… neat – symmetrical and tidy, like a movie set, perhaps), and the signs (all hand-painted in style, but flashing lights or changing colors, drawing as much attention as possible to each stall), as she absently followed Hagrid toward a white marble building with enormous bronze doors.

"Gringotts," the giant announced, as she took a double-take at the door-guards: swarthy… creatures, about a head shorter than Harry, with sharp, clever faces, very long fingers and extremely sharp-looking bronze spears. "Goblins," Hagrid said, in a voice that was likely meant to be quiet, but which the nearest goblin clearly overheard. He – at least, she assumed he was a he, given the small, pointed beard – leered and gave them what she considered to be a mockingly ornate bow as they passed through the doors. Inside was a second set of doors – these covered in silver, with a word of warning engraved upon them. The second set of guards bowed much more simply.

Inside _these_ doors was a great hall with a long counter along one side and mirrors on each end, where at least two dozen more goblins sat assessing precious stones, weighing gold, and writing in ledgers. There were thirteen doors along the other wall, with people – human people – being escorted in and out of them. Hagrid led Hermione to the counter and a free teller.

"Mornin'," he said gruffly. "We've come ter take some money outta Mr. Harry Potter's vault."

"You have his key, sir?" the goblin asked disinterestedly.

As Hagrid emptied his pockets looking for the key in question, something occurred to Hermione. She stepped forward, slightly hesitantly. "Excuse me, sir?"

The goblin leaned forward and peered closely at her. "Mr. Potter?"

"Um… could I get a copy of my account history?" Hermione had a savings account at home, in her own name, though her parents were co-signatories. They wanted her to learn how to manage money properly, and had set it up for her when she turned ten. It had about two-hundred pounds in it, and they received a statement every three months noting that a small amount of interest had been added, which she then had to copy into an account book. Her mother had showed her the family accounts once, and the business accounts, which were much larger and more complicated, but worked on the same principle.

"Can you prove your identity?"

"Hang on a mo', I know it's here, somewhere," Hagrid said techily.

"How would I do that?" Hermione asked. She certainly didn't have a birth certificate or the like.

The teller gave her a very pointed grin. "Sinkshaft!" he shouted, and another goblin appeared behind Hermione, like magic, slightly out of breath.

"Sir?"

"Fetch the boy to Reaper," the teller ordered.

Sinkshaft saluted and gestured for Hermione to follow.

"Hang on!" Hagrid objected. "Got it!"

Sinkshaft plucked a small golden key from the giant's hand. "If you will follow me, Mr. Potter?"

"Ain't no need for all tha', now," Hagrid objected. "'e is who 'e says 'e is! We jes' need ter make a withdrawal, an' I got a letter here about the You Know What in vault seven-hundred and thirteen." He passed it over.

"But what about the statement?" Hermione asked.

"We can only release account details to verified vault signatories or their legal guardians," the teller said officiously, looking over the letter.

"Right," she said firmly, "then I want to get verified." She continued speaking over Hagrid's objections. "It's not _responsible_ to make withdrawals without knowing how much money I've _got_ in the first place!"

The goblins gave her a look of approval. Hagrid harrumphed.

"We can deal with the _other_ business while my colleague tends to Mr. Potter's verification," the teller said impatiently.

"Fine," the giant grumbled. "I'll be waitin' out on the steps when yer done."

…

Another goblin was called over to take Hagrid to vault seven thirteen, while Hermione followed Sinkshaft through a series of hallways to an office marked _Senior Inheritance Councilor Reaper_.

Reaper was a brusque, taciturn, female goblin. She sliced Hermione's hand with an obsidian-bladed scalpel. Blood dripped into a copper bowl, which was set in the middle of a seven-pointed star, and then Reaper chanted something over it in a rough, babbling language until it glowed white and cooled to a black ash. Water – or something that looked like water – was added to this to create a jet-black ink. Hermione watched with a rapt fascination – this was the first thing she had seen that she thought truly qualified as a _magic spell_.

Then the goblin poured the ink onto a sheet of parchment, where it traced out what Hermione vaguely recognized as Harry Potter's family tree, with his full name at the top (Henry James Potter), followed by James Charles Potter and Lily Irene Evans, and then grandparents and great-grandparents she had never heard of. Most of them – James, Lily, all of James' parents and grandparents, plus both of Lily's parents, and one of her grandparents, were underlined, though neither Reaper nor Sinkshaft answered when she asked what that meant.

Reaper sighed, looking Hermione in the eye for a long moment, before she announced, "Mr. Potter's identity has been verified." She then took a very sharp-looking quill, scrawled a signature in reddish ink at the bottom of the parchment, and impressed a wax seal with a ring from her third finger. "Take this to Account Manager Piedmont," she instructed Sinkshaft, who sighed and shifted awkwardly, but did take the family tree.

"Um, thank you," Hermione offered, as she was bustled out of the room. A dry bark of laughter followed her into the corridor. She hurried to keep pace with Sinkshaft, whose posture held every indication of a doom he wished to have done with as soon as possible. He knocked lightly on the name-plate of _Senior Accounts Manager Piedmont_ , and tapped his toe anxiously as he waited.

"Come in," a genial voice called.

"Verified Heir of the Potter Estate, Senior Accounts Manager," Sinkshaft announced without preamble, leading Hermione into the office.

"Indeed?"

"Yes, sir." The younger goblin handed over the signed family tree.

" _Ran alokaya_!" the elder exclaimed, clicking his tongue. " _Asvaenna turat_?"

" _Ooba_."

The Account Manager cleared his throat. "Very well, then. You may return to your post, Escort Sinkshaft."

The younger goblin saluted and vanished without another word. The elder grinned. "What can I help you with today, Master Potter?"

"Oh! I just wanted a copy of my most recent account statement. I only just found out that I had an account, you see, and it didn't seem right to make a withdrawal for robes and school supplies and things without looking at the account balance first."

The goblin began to laugh at that, long and hard. There were tears in his eyes when he finally regained control of himself. "My dear Master Potter, your school supplies will hardly make a dent in your trust fund, I assure you. A moment." He turned to a filing cabinet built into the back wall of the office, and fished out a thick portfolio. " _This_ is the most recent accounting of the Potter Estate. Harry Potter Trust Vault, Potter Family Vault, Lily Evans' Vault, investment reports, property deeds and management reports, as well as a summary report on vaults and sums donated to Harry Potter or the Potter Family after the fall of the Dark Lord in 1981 – you are familiar with this?"

"M. Voleur? Passingly," she said faintly, rifling through the file. Good God, it was even more complicated than the business accounts.

The goblin nodded approvingly. "Clan Gringott does not think kindly of thieves, even those who steal from death and not goblins. The vaults and sums donated in the wake of his fall have been concentrated in an annex of the Potter Family Vault, complete with registry of which families and individuals chose to express their gratitude thusly."

"And, um… how much is that, exactly?"

"Donations total 23,459 galleons. Your assets as a whole are valued in the realm of one-million six, of which approximately four hundred thousand is accounted for in coin, gold, gems, and other liquid wealth, four hundred fifty thousand is assessed from the anticipated value of various artifacts, books, and so on should the estate go to auction, three hundred fifty in properties owned, both those reserved for use by the Potter family, and those which include tenant incomes, and approximately four hundred thousand which could be raised by sale of interests in various magical and muggle businesses.

"The annual income from properties is in the realm of an additional one-hundred thousand, but much of that is re-invested in upkeep, for an annual net return ranging from four to eight percent of that sum, of which fifty percent is owed to various managers including Gringott's. The annual return on business investments approximates seven percent of the invested capital, of which the goblin nation takes twenty-five percent as a brokerage fee. Your total annual income, paid to the Potter Family Vault, is therefore generally between twenty-two and twenty-four thousand galleons.

"You, as a minor, have theoretical access to approximately fifty-thousand in coin only, which is contained in your trust vault. There is, however, a cap on withdrawals: five-hundred galleons per month, not to exceed three-thousand galleons per year. Until you reach your legal majority at seventeen, you will not have access to the Family Vault or any of its contents."

Hermione was certain her mouth was gaping. "How much is that in pounds?" she asked faintly, still fixed on the initial number: 1.6 million galleons.

"The exchange rate has been fixed at five to one."

"Five galleons to a pound?" Three-hundred twenty thousand pounds was nothing to sneeze at, but far less overwhelming than she had initially thought.

The goblin smiled pointedly. "Five pounds to a galleon."

"Th-that's… Oh my God! Eight _million_ pounds? Madness!" It was like winning the bloody lottery.

"Indeed. Of which you have access to approximately fifty-thousand galleons, or –"

"That's still a quarter of a million pounds!"

"Correct. You, or anyone who has access to your key, are authorized to make withdrawals from the Harry Potter Trust Vault. It is intended to pay for your care and keeping until you reach your majority, upon which time as the Head of House Potter, you will gain full control over the entire estate. There have been no withdrawals since the inception of the Trust Vault. As your godparents have been found unfit, and your guardianship has reverted to the Office of Child Welfare, Gringott's has acted as the financial steward of the Potter estate since 1981, in accordance with the retainer agreement between the family and my predecessor signed by Charlus Potter in 1957. James Potter chose not to re-negotiate upon his father's death."

"Um, godparents?"

"Sirius Black is in Azkaban Prison. As his godson, and in lieu of other heirs, you will inherit his estate when he dies. Alice Longbottom nee Diggory is in long term care at St. Mungo's hospital. Her son, the Heir of Longbottom, will inherit her estate when she passes."

"Oh, um… okay."

The goblin gave her a reassuring smile. "It is traditional for young wizards of a certain status to begin to monitor their families' finances at the age of recognition, which is to say, thirteen years. And until your majority, unless you appoint or are appointed a guardian in the Magical World who agrees to take full responsibilities as the Potter Regent, you may rest assured that your estate is safe in goblin hands. We have every incentive to increase your holdings, as we receive a percentage commission of investment income. We will also assess your magical inheritance at that time, to determine whether you may legitimately make a claim on any vaults to which you are not the obvious and declared blood heir."

Hermione's head was whirling at this new influx of information. "Ah, alright. So I don't have to do anything right now, then?"

"Indeed not, Master Potter."

"Can I find out how many keys I have, and where they are?" she asked, suddenly recalling that the small part of the fortune she _did_ have access to was strangely vulnerable in that way.

"There is only one key, and it was delivered to me by Escort Sinkshaft," Piedmont informed her, sliding the key across the desk with a single, very long finger. It had, she noted absently, an extra knuckle.

She picked up the key. "Thank you. I, um… I think I should probably go make that withdrawal, now, and catch up with Hagrid."

"I will escort you," the Account Manager said decisively, and rounded the desk to lead her through yet more long, windowless corridors.

After several minutes, they reached a stone passageway with tracks embedded into the floor. At the goblin's whistle, a small cart came hurtling at them out of the darkness. They climbed in, and it sped off again at once. Hermione shrieked. It was very much like riding a roller coaster, but without the safety harnesses and proper seats, and, she thought, feeling rather ill, _sharper turns_. Piedmont, who, she reflected, seemed much easier-going than the other goblins, just laughed. Eventually the cart stopped beside a small door in a passage wall. Piedmont allowed Hermione to open the door, revealing a billow of green smoke ("Not poisonous, just verifying there's been no tampering.") and then mounds of gold, columns of silver, and heaps of little bronze coins.

The goblin helpfully explained the un-decimalized mess that was the magical currency situation, and advised her to take a rather large selection of coins, though, he noted, she could also allow shopkeepers to call directly on her trust vault with her key and a signature to the monthly limit, as a sort of bank-draft. This, she thought, was very exciting – she couldn't write cheques from the account her parents had set up – not to mention _very useful_. Then it was back in the cart.

Perhaps three-quarters of an hour after she followed Sinkshaft away from the teller's counters, she returned to the great marble entry hall. Hagrid was not, she discovered, on the steps where he had promised to wait. This was, she decided, terribly rude of him, especially when the door guard (he of the elaborate bow) informed her that the giant had gone back to the Leaky for a drink, having assumed that she would take 'bloody ages' with whatever the goblins were having her do, and he had business to take care of for Dumbledore.

It was a rather irritable Hermione who pulled out Harry Potter's school list and decided to start at the beginning – with the uniform. She headed resolutely toward the nearest robe shop, Madam Malkin's, determined not to become distracted by the wealth of magical shops and stalls around her. Perhaps after she had located the required items, she would take a break and make a list of non-required essentials that she would need for boarding, and figure out how she was to hide all this from Ms. Caraway, and how she was to get it all back to Caraway House. She sighed. It was probably for the best that Hagrid had abandoned her. He was very conspicuous, and probably wouldn't have been any help with the logistics of it all, anyway.

…

Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling witch dressed all in mauve.

"Hogwarts, dear?" she said, as soon as Hermione opened her mouth. "Got the lot here – another young man being fitted up just now, in fact."

In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale, pointed face was standing on a footstool while a second witch pinned up his long, black robes. Madam Malkin stood Hermione on a stool next to him, slipped a long robe over her head, and started pinning it to the right length.

"Hello," the boy said politely. "Hogwarts, too?"

"Yes," Hermione answered, somewhat hesitantly.

"My father's next door buying my books, and mother's up the street looking at wands," he drawled in a bored voice. "Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully father into getting me one, and I'll smuggle it in somehow."

Hermione sniggered at his obvious attempts to impress her. "Haven't you already got one?" From the way he talked so casually about acquiring it, she would be surprised if he hadn't.

"Yes, well, my _old_ broom is a Nimbus 1750, but they've come out with a _new_ one – the 2000. No point if you can't have the best, is there? What do you fly?"

"Um, I don't," Hermione said with a small shudder at the thought. It couldn't be worse than the Gringotts' cart, could it?

The blond looked baffled for a moment, but rallied quickly enough. "Do you know what house you'll be in yet?"

Hermione rolled her eyes expressively. "I don't even know what they _are_. Can you believe they sent a bloody _groundskeeper_ to tell me about it? I couldn't believe the unprofessionalism."

"A _groundskeeper?_ Like a _servant_?" the boy gaped. Hermione gathered he came from a family much richer than her own.

" _Yes_ , Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds. So I hardly know anything about the school. As soon as I look the part, I'm for the book store. There has got to be _some_ literature on the bloody school _somewhere._ "

An odd look, one part horror, one part disgust, and perhaps a very small part pity, flashed over the boy's face. "Where're your parents? Are you, _you know_?"

"Um, no, I don't know. Is this another of those You Know Who things?"

"Your parents… they're our sort, aren't they?"

"Our sort?"

"Magical." The boy looked a bit horrified, as though he already knew the answer, and didn't like it.

Hermione hesitated. Her parents weren't, of course, but Harry Potter's were. "Yes."

The blond's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What's your surname?"

"Potter. Harry James Potter, if you _must_ know." Then she added, in her poshest tone, "Though I say, there has to be a politer way to solicit an introduction!" The shop assistant now casting some sort of spell at the blond's new robes, bit her lip to stifle a smirk, her eyes drawn to Hermione's face. She blushed and looked away quickly.

The boy went very red, and his eyes raked over Hermione's hairline, but then he said, "Malfoy. Draco Malfoy," and held out a hand. She took it. It would have been terribly rude not to, especially since she'd just drawn attention to his own poor manners. "I thought you'd be taller," he said, still a bit pink.

Hermione, with an entire lifetime of being picked on for her bushy hair and buckteeth as well as her intelligence behind her, bristled, and snapped back without thinking: "Well, I had no expectations of you whatsoever, and yet you've also managed to disappoint." Draco went red again, this time a more blustery shade, but before he could explode, Hermione relented with a sigh. He probably hadn't _meant_ to be rude. "Look… It's fine. You haven't been nearly as rude as Hagrid, or most of the folks in the Leaky Cauldron. ' _Oh, Mr. Potter, so glad to have you back, Mr. Potter, so proud, Harry, can I call you Harry, take a photo with me, Mr. Potter, please_ ,'" she imitated the earlier crowd. "Sycophants."

Draco snorted, but apparently he was sufficiently amused to attempt to continue the conversation. "So where have you been all these years? They say Dumbledore's had you hidden away. I'm surprised he let you out alone."

"Well, I did say my escort's not very good, didn't I? He left me at the bank to go have a nip, the bloody oaf. I've been living with muggles, and yes, so far as I can tell, it _is_ Dumbledore's fault. I've known about magic for a week and a half, and about the fact that I'm famous since about half-past eight this morning."

The boy was now obviously torn between horror and fascination. "What's it like, living with muggles? Are they horrible? How can you stand not knowing about _magic_?"

She couldn't bring herself to tar her parents and all other muggles with the same brush as the Dursleys. "Some are better than others, as you might imagine. They are _people_ , after all. And we have electricity and all sorts of technology to make up for not having magic, plus, I never knew, so I didn't miss it. Having accidental magic and not knowing what it was, was a bit scary. I thought I was going mad for ages. But, you know, that's sorted, now, obviously."

"So you don't know _anything_?"

Hermione glared at him. "I know plenty of things. Maths, history, English, biology… I just don't know about magic. _Yet_." The effect of her glare was rather ruined by Madam Malkin pulling her second finished robe over her head. " _Bother_ ," she muttered under her breath.

Draco sniggered.

"I think I'm going to like you. Call me Draco," he offered magnanimously, a few minutes later.

Hermione rolled this around in her mind for a moment. "You can call me Jamie," she said. It was, at least, somewhat androgynous, and less immediately recognizable than Harry.

"Jamie, then. Since you've been so callously and _unprofessionally_ abandoned, would you like to join my parents and me for the rest of the day?"

"I would like that very much, Draco."

"That's you done, dear," Madam Malkin said, whipping Hermione's third set of robes off. She remained awkwardly on the stool, unsure of how to phrase her request.

"Don't be absurd, Madam Malkin," Draco drawled. "This is _Harry Potter_. He's been living with _muggles_ all his life. He _obviously_ needs a full wardrobe, not just new school robes." He winked at Hermione.

"Draco is quite correct, Madam Malkin," she said primly, mouthing _thank-you_ at the boy.

"You're done as well, Master Malfoy," his assistant said, adding a fifth robe to the pile beside Draco's stool.

"Excellent. Put them on mother's tab, Miss Blythe, for delivery. C'mon, Jamie, I'll show you how proper wizards dress," he added, grabbing Hermione by the hand and pulling her over to a mannequin. She followed only slightly reluctantly, sending wistful glances at the grown-up witches' robes on display – they looked like the sort of thing a fairy princess would wear. The mens' robes, in contrast, just looked like old-fashioned judges' robes, or perhaps university graduation robes, though they were still fancier than the plain black students' robes of their uniforms.

…

By the time Draco's parents showed up, wondering what on Earth had happened to their son, he had managed to get Hermione outfitted with trousers, button-up shirts, vests, ties, and several non-school-uniform over-robes, and they were arguing over whether an eleven-year-old really needed a waistcoat for special occasions. Narcissa, Lady Malfoy, whom Hermione gathered was somewhat like an MP, agreed with her that the answer was no. Lucius, Lord Malfoy, whose manner screamed busy, high-powered London exec (and whose son's obvious hero-worship suggested this was a rare day off in the general vicinity of his family), looked positively sly as he reiterated Draco's invitation to join the Malfoy family to complete their school shopping. He even volunteered to take the boys to a shop for underclothes and nightclothes while Narcissa visited the bank.

After a trip to the promised shop, and a cobbler, when Hermione admitted that she only had a pair of ratty old trainers to wear, she and the Malfoy men met up with the lady of the family, and were summarily swept into and out of a number of shops almost too quickly for Hermione to form an impression. Draco prattled about school and the houses – particularly Slytherin – the teachers they were likely to have, the lessons he had _already_ had, and his favorite thing in the world: Quidditch. Narcissa was far more informative when it came to useful information, like how to get to school in the first place, and how to contact the school – owl- _post,_ like carrier pigeons! – the number of classes and hours per week and student to teacher ratios. It seemed that anyone who was anyone in Magical Britain had attended at one point or another. Lucius' contribution seemed to be standing around looking haughty, coupled with the occasional witty observation on the others' running commentary. He was the one who explained to the trunk-maker exactly what specifications her trunk needed to avoid detection by muggles, however, and he offered to see what he could do about getting her fostered by a magical family instead.

"Narcissa is, after all, a distant cousin of yours," he said, with an absolutely insincere smile.

Narcissa's was much more genuine. " _Very_ distant cousins. Your grandmother was my fifth-cousin, I believe, through the Blacks."

"But if he had gone to his godfather…"

"Sirius Black? The one who's in prison?"

Narcissa flushed faintly. "He's a first-cousin, and an embarrassment to the family, but yes, if you had been in his custody when, well… you would likely have been placed with his mother or with us."

"I'd choose us!" Draco piped up rather loudly. "Auntie Walburga's a hag."

" _Draco Scorpius Malfoy_!" his mother hissed. His father looked faintly amused. "What have I told you about watching your tongue in public?"

He looked around quickly to see if he had been overheard, then hung his head and said, "Sorry, mother." As soon as she turned to her husband, however, he whispered to Hermione, "But she really is." Hermione bit her lip hard to keep from laughing aloud.

It was shortly after that that the Malfoys decided to treat Hermione to a late lunch. They found a café with a balcony overlooking the street, and had just placed their orders when they were rudely interrupted by a very tall man with a long silver beard.

 _ **Dumbledore**_

The flames in Albus' office floo turned green, and a large, shaggy head appeared within them.

"Ah, Hagrid," he beamed. "Have you collected the package?"

"Yessir, Professor. Got it righ' here."

"Right, well, remember, you have to travel overland to bring it here. Floo transport will damage it."

"Reckon it shouldn't be too hard. Got young Harry ter explain 'ow the trains an' the money work on the way 'ere."

"Very good, very good. So you've found him?"

"'Course I did! Wasn' with those Dursleys, anymore, though. 'e was at a foster 'ome in London – said they'd been abusin' 'im," Hagrid reported with a glare at the Headmaster.

Albus felt himself blanch. Harry couldn't be allowed to leave the Dursleys! The blood wards would break the second he left their home for good. "I – I'm sure it's just some childish misunderstanding," he reassured the half-giant. "I'll get everything sorted out."

Hagrid grinned. "Knew you would."

"Where is Harry now, Hagrid?" he asked urgently.

"Well, 'e insisted on gettin' the goblins ter verify 'im as the Heir of Potter, so I left 'em at the bank ter get on with it while I nipped back 'ere to the Leaky ter let yeh know I'd got… the You Know What."

"You left Harry Potter _alone_ in Diagon Alley? Hagrid! Go find him! Right now!"

"Er… yessir," Hagrid said, his face vanishing from the flames even as Albus turned nervously to the instruments that monitored Harry Potter's health and welfare. They seemed as lively as ever. There had even been a bit of an up-tick in their activity lately, probably since the boy had gotten his Hogwarts letter.

Albus settled back into dealing with a series of urgent messages from the ICW, precipitated by his early return from the annual meeting. It wasn't _his_ fault that the Wizengamot had demanded his presence, after all – and everyone knew that the ICW representatives had a duty first and foremost to their home countries. Sometimes he wondered if being involved in international politics was really worth it.

Two hours later, as he was answering the German Minister's representative's attempt to sabotage Magical Britain's bid to host the 1994 QWC Final ("No, Gresham, I am certain that Magical Britain will be fully prepared – hate crimes are at an all-time low, and I have no concerns whatsoever about the capability of our Department of Magical Law Enforcement to maintain security at the event.") when Hagrid's shaggy head reappeared. He looked rather panicked.

"Hagrid!"

"I can't find 'im, sir!"

"Hagrid, calm down!"

"The goblins said 'e took off jes' b'fore I got back, headed toward Knockturn! I been lookin' an' askin', but ain't no one admittin' ter seein' 'im down tha' way, an' no sign of a struggle or naught! What do I do, Per'fesser?"

"Hagrid, I need you to _remain calm_. Wait for me at the Leaky. I'll be there in…" he looked to Fawkes, shabby and molting. Too close to a burning day to go flashing about. _Damn and blast!_ "Fifteen minutes." It would take that long to reach the edges of the wards, but then he could apparate to the gentle giant's side.

He threw his quill down and caught up a simple Sympathetic Focus he had created years ago for just such an event – with the bit of Harry's hair within it, he would be able to track the boy through anything short of a Fidelius or Old Family wards, alive or dead. Then he made all possible haste toward the gates.

He was only too relieved to find the boy sitting on an open balcony at the Glass Octopus Café. He was in the company of the Malfoys, yes, but it could have been much worse – they _could_ have taken him to Malfoy Manor, from which even Albus himself would have been hard-pressed to retrieve him.

Now, all he had to do was convince the boy to come with him, so that he could be returned to his aunt and uncle, preferably without alerting the child to the danger his luncheon companions posed. He would _hate_ for this to turn into some sort of… hostage situation.

He took a deep breath.

"Harry, my dear boy! Here you are! Hagrid's been worried sick! He's waiting downstairs. If you'd like to join us, we can, I'm sure, conclude your shopping in no time at all, and get you back to your aunt and uncle, where you belong!"

 _ **Hermione**_

The wizard took a deep breath and fixed an entirely false-looking pleasant smile on his face before saying, in an equally-fake, jovial tone, "Harry, my dear boy! There you are! Hagrid's been worried sick! He's waiting downstairs. If you'd like to join us, we can, I'm sure, conclude your shopping in no time at all, and get you back to your aunt and uncle, where you belong!"

The Malfoys froze, Lucius and Narcissa having some kind of silent conversation across the table from each other, like her parents sometimes did, but neither said anything. Hermione blinked at the newcomer for a long moment. Everything about him screamed 'stranger danger,' and he said he wanted to take her back to the _Dursleys_? As far as she was concerned, there was only one appropriate response: Object to going _anywhere_ with him. Loudly.

"I don't know who you think you are, but I will _not_ be going _anywhere_ with you! I would _like_ to remain _here_ , with Lord and Lady Malfoy, and eat my lunch, _not_ be returned to Vernon and Petunia Dursley, who think I _belong_ in a bloody boot cupboard under the bloody _stairs!_ Even _if_ I wanted to go back, which, let me make this perfectly clear, _I DON'T_ , I couldn't. I called CPS on those useless wastes of oxygen. They wouldn't have me back, and the government wouldn't make me go, and there's nothing you can do about it! If you're really with Hagrid, you can tell him for me that I've found more competent escorts, who didn't _abandon me in the middle of a strange new world to go off and have a bloody nip at the pub at ten-thirty in the bloody morning_!"

The wizard stepped toward the table, but Lucius stood up to get in his way, and then Narcissa said, clearly and calmly, "Please hold hands, if you would, boys." Draco seized Hermione's wrist, and the stranger froze.

"What are we doing?" she hissed at Draco.

"If he tries to take you, now, he'll have to splinch one of us or take both of us, and if he hurts or kidnaps the Heir of Malfoy, my father will have him removed from _every_ position of power he holds in the wizarding world," the boy answered at a normal volume. " _Mother_ would probably do something that makes Auntie Bella look sane."

For all she had understood perhaps one word in three of the implied threat and the danger handholding would prevent, Hermione did understand that the Malfoys were trying to protect her. She wrapped her own fingers securely around Draco's wrist as well.

"If you are truly as wise a man as your followers claim, Albus Dumbledore," Lucius drawled, "You will take a step back. I would _hate_ to have to interpret your invasion of my space and this disruption of my luncheon as an insult to the Noble House of Malfoy."

The other patrons of the restaurant were now staring as the blond aristocrat glared down the man Hermione now realized was the 'great' Headmaster of Hogwarts, Chief Mugwump, and whatever else the string of titles after his name meant. Dumbledore seemed to realize this, and (clearly reluctantly) stepped back.

"Please, Harry, my dear boy," he said insistently, "you must come with me. You must return to your family! It is not safe for –"

Hermione stood, dragging Draco with her, and cut him off, absolutely furious, and determined to be as rude to this interloper as she possibly could. "No, _Albus_ ," (Draco gasped. Hermione caught a quickly-concealed smirk from his father.) "I will not be going _anywhere_ with you! Were you not listening, before, when I said I cannot and do not _want_ to return to the Dursleys? They are NOT my family! They have never treated me like family! And the government of the United Kingdom is in the process of declaring them unfit guardians! It has been determined that leaving _me_ in _their_ care constitutes significant _HARM_ to a _child_ , i.e.: _me_ , so forgive me, _my dear creepy old man_ , if I doubt your ability to judge what constitutes a safe environment, since according to your own dogsbody, _you_ were the one responsible for leaving me there in the first place!"

A ringing silence fell at the end of her tirade, every eye in the restaurant focused on the five of them. Lucius was holding what had to be a magic wand on Dumbledore to stop him reaching in his pocket. Several other diners had half-risen from their seats, but froze, obviously torn between Dumbledore and Hermione herself. She was glowering at the old man, with a rather tense Draco still holding on to her left hand for dear life. And Narcissa had a dangerously calculating look in her eye that reminded Hermione uncomfortably of her own mother.

"You have no idea what you've just done," the old man said, anger and fear mingling in his tone as he glared at the dark-haired, green-eyed child before him. She shivered.

"Perhaps we should discuss the situation in… greater privacy," Narcissa suggested, in a way which was not at all a suggestion, beckoning a server closer, and giving him a series of clipped orders which Hermione couldn't quite make out.

"If you'll all, um, follow me?" The waiter gestured toward the stairs, and led them through the kitchen to what had to be a manager's office. Dumbledore, still held at wandpoint, swept ahead of the Malfoys, somehow making it seem as though he were at the head of a procession and they were doing precisely what he wanted. Hermione found herself hoping he would trip on his over-long, luridly-patterned robes. He didn't. He also took the chair behind the desk in the manager's office as though he owned the place.

"Anti-portkey, anti-apparition, anti-eavesdropping wards all in place, ma'am," the waiter said quickly. "I'll let the staff know you're not to be disturbed." He bowed jerkily and fled before he could be given any other orders. Narcissa smirked, then rounded on Dumbledore, stalking around the desk so that she could loom over him. Somehow, Hermione wasn't sure how or when, it appeared the Lady Malfoy had wrested control of the situation away from both her husband and the Headmaster. Though, given the look of anticipation on Lucius' face, _he_ might have gracefully conceded.

"Narcissa," the other man said calmly, popping something into his mouth. "Lemon drop?"

" _Dumbledore_ ," the lady returned, ignoring the offer of candy, "I will not open, as my son so impolitely did on my behalf with threats against your person. I will simply remind you that I _did_ have _two_ sisters, and invite you to recall which of the two I more closely resemble in temperament. If I were to destroy you, it would be completely and without warning – you would have no inkling of my movements until I was poised to strike, and while my husband's influence is impressive, you may be assured that my own network is further-reaching."

Dumbledore tried to speak, but Narcissa held up a finger and spoke over him. She did not raise her voice, but every word was clear and sharp. "If you care to _test_ the extent to which your star has waned since 1945, I implore you to continue your attempts to convince Mr. Potter to return to what he claims is an untenable living situation. Otherwise, I invite you to explain yourself, and to open a dialogue with my husband and me regarding the boy's further care. I will advise you, however, that you do not, in fact, hold the bones in this situation. _Without_ Mr. Potter's assistance in mitigating the effects of his outburst upstairs, well… Tell me, Albus, how do you think the Board of Governors will feel about the children of Magical Britain remanded into the care of the man who placed _The Boy Who Lived_ in an abusive home, and _repeatedly_ and _publically_ insisted that he return there against his wishes?"

"I acted in Harry's best interests!" the old man defended himself. "The Wizengamot would never –"

Narcissa scoffed, cutting him off. "All legalities aside, even the rumor would be enough to ruin you, _Headmaster_. You have finally miss-stepped so severely that your influence alone will not be enough to save you. 'Tread carefully, for the Serpent is a slippery beast, and his fangs are sharp.'"

The last was spoken with something of a quotation and an insult about it. Hermione joined Draco in staring openly at his mother. Lucius was smirking broadly.

"I think I'm in love with your mum," Hermione whispered to the boy who was still holding her hand.

He grinned and whispered back, "She's one of the best speakers in the Wizengamot. Father says the Dark always gets her to argue when we really have to make a point against _his_ lot."

Then they both shut up, because Dumbledore, who had gone slightly pale at the thought of the damage done to his reputation not five minutes before, cleared his throat. "What is it to you, Miss Black, where Harry Potter lives? His welfare is none of your concern!"

Narcissa, who had backed off slightly over the course of her rebuke, drew herself up into the very picture of an offended matron – she reminded Hermione forcefully of Grandmère Jeanne, who was not a woman to be crossed.

"The welfare of all magical children is of concern to myself and all other right-thinking witches and wizards!" she snapped, her voice still reasonably quiet, but harder and more emphatic, as though she was mortally insulted. "And you _forget_ yourself, _Headmaster_ : I was there, on the first of November – not at St. Mungo's with my husband, who was recovering from extensive exposure to the Imperius Curse, nor at home with my son, who was himself a babe in arms! I watched with the rest of the Wizengamot as _you_ argued that Harry Potter was a national treasure, as you petitioned that august body to remand him to _your_ custody, to be hidden away for his own safety! I _voted in favor_ of that motion! And _you_ , you turned around and handed him off to muggle _scum_ as though he were no more important than a sack of potatoes! _I have an interest_ because it was, in small part, _my fault_ that _you_ were ever granted any measure of control over his life."

Dumbledore looked both taken-aback and utterly _furious_ at the blonde witch's tirade. "Harry, do not listen – she lies!" he objected sharply, but Hermione was more inclined to believe the woman who had been so kind to her all morning than the man who had, apparently, neglected Harry Potter for his entire childhood.

" _Furthermore_ ," the woman in question hissed, verbally stomping on the Headmaster's attempt to derail her, "as I have been _recently_ reminded, _as a daughter of the House of Black_ ," (The wizard looked as though he had been smacked, to have his deliberate misaddress of the Lady Malfoy thrown back in his face.) "I have a duty of care to my cousin's godson, _the very least of which_ is to ensure that he is housed in a safe and nurturing environment – and, even leaving aside for the moment the crime against magic that is allowing the Heir to the Noble House of Potter to be raised _as a_ _muggleborn_ , a household which even the _muggle government_ deems unfit _most certainly_ does not qualify as safe! I am _ashamed_ to have been enabled such a decision in any small way, and I am _horrified_ that an elder statesman of our fair country such as yourself appears to have _no_ remorse for his own _much_ greater role!"

If Narcissa had taken her eyes off the old wizard for even a moment, she might have seen awe painted across Hermione's face. But instead, she caught aged fingers creeping toward a lurid pocket. "If you draw your wand, Albus Percival Brian Wulfric Dumbledore, in light of your recent actions, my husband and I _will_ be forced to assume you mean harm toward myself or our family, Chief Warlock or not." Her own wand was suddenly in her hand, and had joined her husband's in pointing at the old man. "They say it is ill luck for the first spell of a new wand to be cast with ill-intent, but there are few things I would not risk to protect my son."

The creeping fingers stilled, and the Headmaster folded his hands on the desk. "Then by all means, _Lady Malfoy_ , let us 'open a dialogue,'" he said smoothly, though his eyes held barely-restrained fury.

In the blink of an eye, every trace of anger was gone from Narcissa's body language. Her wand disappeared as quickly as it had appeared in the first place. She smiled reassuringly at Hermione. "Mr. Potter, is there anything you would like to say to Mr. Dumbledore?"

Hermione swallowed hard, suddenly nervous. "Only that I'm not going back to the Dursleys. And I don't think much of sending a _groundskeeper_ to recruit me for your school. And that I'm not clear on why you were the one to leave me with the Dursleys, or why you had my vault key, but the least you could have done was check up on me, or send someone to tell me about magic in person. A four-line letter saying I'm accepted to your school is a hell of a way to find out!"

Draco glared at the Headmaster, but held his tongue when his mother gave him a warning look. "Mr. Dumbledore?" the lady prompted.

"I am so very sorry, Harry, my boy," he began, but Hermione interrupted.

"I'm _not_ your _boy_."

"Please do observe the proprieties, Mr. Dumbledore," Lucius drawled.

There was true _hate_ in the look the Headmaster threw at the aristocrat. "I find it amusing how many of _Lord Voldemort's_ old followers insist upon propriety of address," he said. His lips twitched as all three of the Malfoys flinched at the name. "However, by all means, let us be formal. Master Potter."

"It's _Mr._ Potter," Draco corrected him fiercely. "Jamie's the Heir of Potter, and there's no Lord Potter. You'd know that if you weren't a m-"

The boy's voice was cut off with a flick of his mother's wand. "Language, Draco," she said calmly. The boy flushed and he hung his head. "My son is, however, correct, Mr. Dumbledore, unlike your insinuation that my husband and myself were willingly involved with the Dark Lord. Now, is there anything you would like to say to _Mr. Potter_?"

The old man sighed, and with obvious effort, pulled together a grandfatherly façade. "H – Mr. Potter. I was under the impression that the Dursleys would have told you all about your parents and the magical world – Petunia certainly knows of it, as her own sister, your mother, was a witch. Hagrid was simply to assure us that you had, in fact, made a decision as to whether you would attend Hogwarts, and help you fetch your supplies if need be. And as for why I was the one into whose care you were given, and why you were left with the Dursleys, well… what do you know of Voldemort's" (The Malfoys twitched again.) "War?"

"Hagrid gave me the kiddy-version this morning. Twenty-odd years ago, some wizard went 'bad' and took a French _nom de guerre_ under which he began to draw what I gather was a rather militant following. I believe Hagrid's words were that terrible things happened, and you couldn't trust anyone. On Halloween of 1981, he attempted to kill my parents and myself, failed to kill me, and vanished. He may or may not be dead."

"He almost certainly is not," the old man said. "There are certain indicators that suggest he will, in fact, one day return. And he had many followers and sympathizers," he added, with an accusing look at Lucius, "some of whom escaped justice after his fall, and continue to be very influential in our society."

"Even you are not exempt from the Truce, Mr. Dumbledore," Narcissa said lightly. Hermione made a mental note to find out more about 'the Truce' and the Malfoys' role in the war later.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Quite. Mr. Potter, when your mother died, she laid a very powerful protection on you. Her love shielded you from Voldemort's" ( _twitch_ ) "attack. I was able to build very strong protective wards on the basis of that sacrifice. So long as you lived with your maternal family, and called their house home, those who wished you harm, Voldemort and his followers chief among them, could not touch you. A protection which _you_ have now _voided_ , by seeking to remove yourself from that house, and declaring that they are no family of yours."

Hermione briefly felt _very_ guilty, until Narcissa spoke up again. "That… is…"

"The biggest load of hippogriff dung you've ever heard?" Lucius finished. "I quite agree."

"Jamie," the lady said, speaking directly to Hermione for the first time since Dumbledore had arrived, "I regret to inform you that _love_ , no matter how true and strong it may be, cannot shield against a Killing Curse. You must forgive Mr. Dumbledore his ignorance. His philosophy blinds him: he knows little about dark magic, and less about the soul. Whatever happened that night – which _no one knows_ , because _you are the only living witness_ – it was not simply a mother's love that saved you and destroyed the Dark Lord."

"Indeed," Lucius sneered, " _and_ our esteemed Chief Warlock has just come perilously close to admitting that he placed very dangerous and extremely illegal blood wards on a minor in his care – for what other kind of ward depends on proximity to one's blood relatives? Oh, they are light enough magic, based on familial bonds and acceptance, but you are better off without such 'protections.' Had they ever been called into effect, I suspect the strain on _your magic alone_ , given that your maternal relations _are muggles_ , would have killed you as the wards drew on your power and life to defend you."

Hermione suddenly felt very light-headed. Draco, still silenced, squeezed her hand tightly in support.

Dumbledore looked a bit pale, but he rallied. "There is no proof of that, and in any case, the point is moot. The fact remains, however, that Mr. Potter must be placed with a foster family post-haste, and as the one entrusted with his safety, I –"

"If you are about to say that we ought to entrust this boy to your protections a _second_ time," Lucius interrupted, "you had best reconsider."

"He can't stay in a muggle orphanage!" Dumbledore snapped.

"I quite agree," Narcissa said with a grin. "He can stay with us."

"Wha-?" the old wizard was completely dumbfounded. Lucius looked nearly as surprised, but not displeased.

"That is, if you like, Jamie."

Draco, obviously still unable to speak, nodded frantically. Hermione considered. The Malfoys had been nice enough, even if Lord Malfoy obviously had some scheme in mind, and Lady Malfoy was a little scary. The way she shifted between rage and kindness would have been _terrifying_ if Hermione hadn't suspected it was all an act to manipulate the old man. She had seen her mother do similar things to the school board and the Neighborhood Association, though never so fiercely. Still, the lady was patient with her own son, and had been consistently pleasant to Hermione all day, even standing up for her to this supposedly great man who wanted to take her back to the Dursleys. Plus, the Malfoys _clearly_ had money, so living with them was almost _bound_ to be better than living at Caraway House. And besides, she had always wanted a sister. (Draco, with his enthusiasm for clothes and prissy manners, was close enough.)

It was also worth considering that if she had truly fallen into some sort of story, this was obviously where it truly began. She smiled wryly to herself. Narrative Causality practically _demanded_ that she say yes.

"Okay," she said decisively. "I'd like that."

"No!" The Headmaster stood up suddenly. "I won't allow it! _You_ are exactly the sort of people I hid him away from in the first place!"

Narcissa smirked. "'Boy Who Lived Abuse Scandal – Dumbledore to Blame? Special Correspondent Rita Skeeter Reports!' One floo-call, Albus."

"Followed by 'Dumbledore Admits Prejudice against Former Imperiused Death Eater and Family,'" Lucius added. "Even your most loyal supporters in the Wizengamot would not be enough to save you from an order to Step Down."

Dumbledore appeared to collapse in on himself, falling back into the chair, a Malfoy looming on either side of him. "Let us not be too hasty, here – there are other wizarding families with a better claim – Molly Weasley nee Prewett was James Potter's second-cousin, or Augusta Longbottom?"

"Molly Prewett is a harpy who can't let the past lie, and Arthur Weasley has too many sons as it is," Narcissa snapped. "Augusta Longbottom's claim is through Alice Diggory, who was Jamie's godmother, and in _that_ case, our suit is equally valid! Moreso, since we are considered upstanding members of society, while Madam Longbottom is an embittered old woman who has, by all accounts, managed to turn her grandson into a near-squib with her overbearing and unreasonable expectations for him."

"I am sure the Tonks family –"

Narcissa scowled. "Andromeda Tonks renounced her claim to the Black name and all that entails in 1971, including her familial relationship with Sirius and thus any grounds to press a suit to foster his godson! We are by far the best candidates, you must admit it."

"I must do no such thing," the old wizard said coldly, standing again and brushing past Narcissa to reach the door. "Let me remind you both of something which you seem to have forgotten since your days as _my pupils_ : _Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus_. The Malfoy Family _will_ regret meddling in my affairs."

Lucius got the last word, however. " _Sanctimonia vincet semper_ , Headmaster. Charity, compassion, and protecting our children were, last I checked, still considered virtues."

The Headmaster stepped out into the kitchen and turned on his heel, disappearing with a final glare and a loud crack.

Narcissa let out a breath she had clearly been holding, and took a seat on the desk. She finally released the silencing spell on Draco, who immediately muttered, "If that old pervert ever tries to titillate _me_ in _my_ sleep, I'll stab him in the neck."

This drew a gasp of shocked horror from Hermione, and a substantial amount of laughter from both of his parents. Between snorts, Lucius explained that the Hogwarts motto actually meant not to tickle a sleeping dragon, and that there was "little to no risk" of his son being molested by the headmaster.

"Though you'd best aim for Slytherin, anyway," Narcissa added with a frown. "Severus does a damn sight better looking out for his children than any of the others do, and I'd hate for there to be a 'tragic accident'…"

"I, um… I didn't mean to make trouble," Hermione offered quietly. "Or put Draco in any danger."

"Nonsense, Jamie – Dumbledore has hated the Malfoy Family for ages," Lucius said, rolling his eyes. "And Cissa, your Black roots are showing. Even the Old Goat wouldn't stoop _that_ low."

" _I_ am going to pretend that you didn't just imply that my Black roots are a negative trait, Lucius, and _you_ are going directly to the ministry to begin the process of untangling the mess Dumbledore has made of young Jamie's legal status to make it up to me," his wife informed him with an arched brow.

Lucius sighed. "Yes, dear."

"Off with you, then," she shooed him out of the office, and once in the kitchen, he disappeared, like Dumbledore before him, with a loud crack. "And while your father is off taking care of _that_ , I propose we finish our much-belated repast, and attend to the remainder of your shopping lists: just books and wands left, yes?"

"Yes, ma'am," Hermione responded brightly, very excited for both magic books and a magic wand.

"Do call me Ms. Narcissa, Jamie. My husband is Mr. Lucius. We are not, after all, so very much older than you boys."

Draco snorted at that, but held his tongue. "Didn't father already _get_ my textbooks?" he complained instead as they returned to their table on the (now quite empty) second floor.

"He did," Narcissa replied, rolling her eyes, "But unless you plan to share with Jamie like a pair of degenerate Weasleys, we appear to be in need of a second set."

"Plus I've only just found out about magic!" Hermione added, bouncing in her chair. "I'm sure there's all sorts of other books, too – I can't wait to see!"

"Just so," the older witch said approvingly.

" _Fine_ ," Draco pouted. "But if I have to go to Flourish and Blotts, I want a new racing broom!"

"We can stop in at Bagnold's after Ollivander's," his mother said serenely.

"But QQS has a better selection!"

"Well, if you insist, you may wait until your father is free, and do your best to convince him to take you. You know how I feel about Mr. Morsette."

Draco sighed. "He's a degenerate Gryffindor of the worst sort, and we'd be better off ordering directly from the manufacturers than funneling any more money into his business, especially after his father started voting with the Light," he recited.

"Exactly."

"But _mother_ , they let you do _test flights_."

"Save it for your father, Draco."

"Jamie's never flown before!"

"And he's not going to learn on a test-flight on a brand-new, top-of-the-line Nimbus," Narcissa said firmly. " _And_ , if you don't eat your vegetables instead of trying to nudge them off the table, we won't even be going to Bagnold's."

"Fine!" He stuffed a whole asparagus in his mouth, and stuck his tongue out at his mother when she turned to deal with the bill.

"I saw that, Draco. This is your final warning."

The pointy-faced boy swallowed with difficulty. "Yes, Mother. Sorry, Mother."

Hermione smiled, feeling for the first time in ages like she was part of a real family again, just watching mother and son interact.

 _ **Severus**_

Severus Snape was summoned to the Headmaster's Office just past two o'clock. This was incredibly irritating, as he had just settled down to work for the day. It was one thing to give him eighty-plus hours of work during the average school week, but he had thought that the old man appreciated having faculty who published! At this rate, he would never finish his experiment on venom enhancement and its antidotes.

He took the long way, which involved eight flights of stairs and three secret passages, so that he could safely mutter all of his frustrations under his breath before he reached the office, rather than simply floo up.

When he arrived, Dumbledore was pacing. That was odd. He normally preferred to sit behind his desk as though he had everything in the wizarding world under control, and there was nothing at all to worry about, saying 'oh, by the by, fancy a Lemon Soother disguised as a revolting muggle sweet?'

"Severus," he said, without preamble, "I fear there has been a grave development."

Curiosity warred with scorn, and won. "What is it?"

"Harry Potter has been kidnapped by Lucius Malfoy."

Severus raised an eyebrow at the old man, while silently congratulating Narcissa. Everyone who mattered knew that she was the brains of that outfit, though Lucius was more visible. If Harry Potter truly had been found, it would doubtless be her doing, not her husband's. "I fail to see why you have summoned me here, Dumbledore," he said impatiently.

The old man, now at the far side of the room, turned suddenly to face him. "I require more information – how are they holding the boy? What is our most effective tactic by which to recover him?"

"Surely they will be sending him to Hogwarts in a month with their own spoilt brat." The best thing Severus could say about Draco Malfoy was that he had, at least, had the best tutors money could buy, and was therefore not quite as ignorant as his peers would be. That did not mean he was not a spoilt, entitled brat, whom Severus was not looking forward to having in his house.

"There is no guarantee that they will not homeschool them, or ship them off to Durmstrang!"

"Narcissa will not see her son in the hands of Igor Karkaroff, much less so valuable a political pawn as Harry Potter. Much as the Dark disapproves of your leadership, they do trust the Hogwarts Treaty to prevent you taking their children hostage. There are no such assurances from Durmstrang," Severus reminded the Headmaster. "And the networking opportunities Hogwarts provides are too valuable to allow the Heir of Malfoy to be homeschooled."

He received a scowl in return. "This is a matter of the utmost urgency! Surely you see that! Just imagine, Severus, what they could _do_ to the boy in a month!"

The Potions Master rolled his eyes. "Like convince him the sun doesn't shine out of your arsehole?"

"This is no laughing matter, Severus!" the Headmaster shouted. Severus felt his eyes widen minutely. He had never managed to make the old man lose his temper so thoroughly before. "The child was clearly confounded! He accused me of leaving him in an abusive muggle home, in front of an entire restaurant full of witnesses!"

" _Did_ you?" Severus asked, taken aback. It was obvious that Dumbledore did not believe the accusation, but Severus was far less inclined to dismiss such claims, given his personal experiences with abuse and abused children.

He knew, of course, that Dumbledore had placed the boy with Petunia Evans and her muggle husband, a ploy at least partially motivated by a desire to leave the child ignorant of his fame until he reached Hogwarts, and partially in the hope of fostering some love of the muggle world in the Boy Who Lived. For all the old man liked to believe himself untouchable, he was nowhere near sufficiently competent in the art of Occlumency to keep a skilled and determined legilimens at bay for years on end, and Severus had had every reason to infiltrate the mind of his remaining Master. That said, he had not cared to look too closely at what little the old goat knew of Harry Potter's home life, and in any case, he could not afford to reveal that he had wormed his way into the Headmaster's mind, so he was bound to pretend ignorance of anything he could not credit to some source other than legilimency.

"Of course not! I left him with his own family, his aunt and uncle!" the elder wizard thundered. "Malfoy is to blame for this, mark my words!"

Severus allowed his glare to intensify as he concealed his knowledge of the situation. "You do not mean _Petunia Evans_ , surely?"

"Who else? Lily sacrificed herself to save him, and while he lives with her blood, that sacrifice will continue to protect him! Or it _would have_ – they convinced him, somehow, to break the wards!"

He pointed at a particular silvery monitoring device that seemed to have cracked down the middle and was no longer moving. Severus rather suspected that it had probably taken very little convincing, if the boy was telling the truth. He, for one, would be willing to believe many things of the bitter young woman he used to know. He had taken Dumbledore's word that Harry Potter was well-looked-after, willing to accept that Petunia could have matured sufficiently to look after Lily's son, if not to love him as her own, but given the boy's apparent testimony… Abusing, or at the very least neglecting, the unwanted, _magical_ son of her long-estranged sister was equally within her capabilities.

But the old fool was still talking: "And, _and_ – they had the nerve to accuse me, in front of the boy, of endangering his life! I fear he will never come to fully trust me, now, unless we can recapture him and reverse whatever spells they have been holding him under – make him see that they have been trying to use him for their own purposes…"

"And you are _certain_ , are you, that the boy was not harmed by Petunia and her husband?"

"Of course not, Severus! He is their own blood! I am sure they would never –"

"As though blood matters in these things!" Severus interrupted, quite suddenly legitimately furious with the old man. Half of his Slytherins were treated abominably by their own parents in the name of teaching them to be 'proper' heirs. He himself had been at the mercy of his drunken muggle father until he finally reached his majority and could use magic to fight the man off. He would not wish such a fate even on the son of James Potter. "Did you go and check up on him? See for yourself his state and condition at regular intervals?" Severus knew he hadn't.

"He was being monitored," here Dumbledore pointed at a cheerfully waving indicator, "and I have had a squib watching the house, as well, to give periodic updates."

As though 'a squib watching the house' would know what went on inside of it! Didn't he know, better than anyone, the lengths to which a child would go to refuse to admit a problem with their home life? The Head of Slytherin was momentarily speechless. Then he hissed with as much venom as he could muster, "You are a _fool_ ," and turned on his heel.

"Severus! _Sever_ -"

Severus whipped back around, robes nearly snapping. "I will make my own inquiries, and act to protect the boy if necessary, _Headmaster_. I _swore_ it, after all. I will _not_ kidnap a child who was quite possibly abused from a family that has offered him protection on your say-so alone, and compel him to believe your 'truth' over theirs." He sneered as fiercely as he could at the old man. "Even the Dark Lord never stooped so low as _that_." It was true – the Dark Lord had killed children, and Bellatrix had, on occasion, tortured them, but neither had ever forced him to do so.

He turned on his heel again and stalked out of the tower office, ignoring the old man's angry protestations behind him. He would find the truth of the matter, and then, well… then he would do whatever he deemed most appropriate. And if Dumbledore had sent the child he had made Severus swear to protect to an abusive home, then Dumbledore could go hang for all Severus cared. There was little love between them to be lost, but he dared say that would do it.

 _ **Hermione**_

The book store was fabulous. There was no other word for it. Close-stacked shelves rose up to the ceiling, packed with tomes like paving stones and tiny little handbooks, bound in silk and leather, on parchment and paper. Every section was organized according to a different principle. At least half of them were written in French or Latin or what had to be Ancient Runes, and there were more languages she didn't recognize, but even just limiting herself to the English selection, there were _thousands_ of titles that caught her eye. _And_ she had an entire vault full of money to spend, and a trunk like The Luggage to store them in (kind of – it was bigger on the inside and followed her around, though she didn't think it would actually eat people, and it floated instead of moving on tiny feet). If this wasn't heaven, she didn't know what was.

Narcissa had been quite obviously amused when she carried her first armload of additional history texts to the counter. By the time she re-appeared with a selection of magical theory books, it was clear the blonde witch was slightly alarmed.

"Perhaps," she said, with a tiny smile, "we might narrow these down a bit to the introductory level?"

Hermione had been forced to concede that some of the books were out of her league, and that she would be at Hogwarts by the time she needed any of them, anyway, so she could have a look at them in the library before she decided whether to actually buy them. Narcissa also informed her that the Malfoys owned several of the more expensive history books already, and there was no sense in her buying another copy when she was going to come live with them and could borrow them indefinitely. Finally, the older witch had added several books on etiquette; _Nature's Nobility_ (which Hermione gathered was like Debrett's for wizards); a selection of books intended for muggleborns, which explained the basics of magical culture and politics; French and Latin dictionaries; and a beautiful, blue, leather-bound journal, with thick, creamy parchment pages (because "every young gentleman should have a diary, and you will need to practice your penmanship").

She couldn't wait to get home – whether that turned out to be the Malfoys' house (manor? It was probably a manor, she decided) or Caraway House – though she was torn between whether to dive into the new history books to find out about M. Voleur's War and the part 'she' had played in it, and writing down everything that had happened over the course of the day while it was still fresh in her mind.

Draco was kept busy fetching books as Narcissa thought of them to add to the pile, while Hermione resisted returning history and magical theory books to the stacks. In between, he complained quietly about how fetching and carrying was servants' work and how he wanted to go to the Quidditch shop, but Hermione suspected that it was mostly out of habit, because she caught him flipping interestedly through one of the books for muggleborns right before he was sent off to find _A Brief History of Traditionalism: Powers and the Holidays_. He had also snuck a few wizarding fiction books into the pile, but Hermione didn't mind. She would be happy to read those as well.

It took what Hermione considered a depressingly short time to accumulate what Narcissa considered quite enough books to be getting on with. She could have spent _days_ trawling through the stock in-depth. But the elder witch had, after only an hour, put her foot down, pointing out that they still had to make it to Ollivanders', the wand shop, before he closed for the day. The books were duly packed away into the trunk (which was now rather full, even given its magically-enhanced dimensions), and the three of them proceeded up the street.

Ollivanders' was a narrow, rather shabby-looking shop. Its peeling sign claimed to have been in business since 382 BC, which seemed patently impossible. Hermione made a note to see if it was mentioned in any of her history books. As Draco held the door for his mother, Hermione heard a bell tinkle in the depths of the building. Narcissa took custody of the single spindly chair in the deserted waiting-area. The children shared Hermione's trunk's lid, which she suspected was more comfortable, anyway. There was a sense in the air, as though anything could happen – potential. Magic? She could almost feel it rising off the thousands of narrow boxes piled to the ceiling.

Before she could ask any of the many of questions that came to mind, an old man slipped out from between the shelves. He had wide, pale eyes that shined in the gloom of the shop, and his voice was soft when he spoke.

"Good afternoon, Lady Malfoy. Back so soon?"

Narcissa quirked a half-smile at the aged wizard. "Not for myself, Mr. Ollivander. My son is in need of his first wand today as well, as is Mr. Potter…" she trailed off, as the man's attention had obviously turned to the children.

He moved closer to them, almost gliding, his eyes magnified ridiculously behind his spectacles, like an oversized insect. Draco hopped to his feet and bowed. Hermione did her best to mimic him.

"Mr. Potter. Master Malfoy…"

"Greetings, Master Wandmaker," Draco said rather nervously. Hermione echoed him, and the old wizard focused in on her.

"Yes… yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon… Harry Potter. You have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work." He moved even closer, not blinking. It was rather creepy. "Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power, and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it – it's really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course." He was now so close that Hermione could see Harry Potter's green eyes reflected in Ollivander's own. He flicked aside her fringe and ran a finger gently over the lightning-bolt scar.

Narcissa cleared her throat. "Do you see something, Mr. Ollivander?"

The old wizard shook his head. "Something, nothing, everything. The hand of fate lies heavy on you, I fear, my child. And for that I am sorry, for I sold the wand that cursed you with this destiny. Thirteen-and-a-half inches, yew, very powerful…" he shook his head and moved away slowly.

"Narcissa Black… your first wand was beechwood, very unusual for a first wand, with a core of unicorn hair…"

"Until my son was born, yes. I have used ebony and phoenix for the past ten years. The latest is somewhat more rigid than the previous."

"Appropriate. And Lucius Malfoy first wielded his late father's cherry and dragon, before being matched with his own cherry and unicorn, which he still has…?"

Narcissa nodded. Ollivander gave her a rather sideways look, and she smirked. "Draco takes after Orion, and has had some success with both his and old Armand Malfoy's wands.

"Armand Malfoy used Gregorovitch, I believe, but Orion… Orion, hmm… Very well, then… let us see… For the young Master Malfoy, I think we should be trying the unusual woods, first, with hmm… yes, unicorn, I think… here we are. Yew and unicorn, twelve inches, unyielding." He handed Draco a box. Draco, after a warning look from his mother, waited politely for him to choose one for Hermione as well.

"For Mr. Potter… let us see… Ah, yes. Let's try beechwood and dragon. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just give it a wave." Both children took the wands from their boxes. Hermione swished hers decisively, like Narcissa had to silence Draco, earlier, but nothing happened. Draco brought his straight down before him, and produced a few sparks for his efforts.

Ollivander snagged Hermione's wand straight out of her hand, saying, "No, and no," and Draco set his carefully back in its box.

The wandmaker cheerfully passed "Hawthorn and unicorn, eight inches," to Draco (which was slightly more responsive) and then "Maple and phoenix, seven inches," to Hermione (which was exactly the same – nothing happened). Draco was matched on his third try, with "Hawthorn and unicorn, ten inches." A fountain of silver sparks erupted from it, and he spent several minutes making a light go on ("lumos") and off ("nox") at the end of it before his mother told him to stop showing off and let Ollivander find Hermione's wand.

That was easier said than done. She tried wand after wand, and Ollivander seemed to grow more and more confused, but also more excited. Finally, he had it narrowed down to two, each of which suited her equally well, and either of which Ollivander assured her she could use effectively, but _neither_ of which was a perfect match. One was made of vinewood, with a dragon heartstring core. The other was holly, with a phoenix feather. No other combination of vine and phoenix or holly and dragon, however, was anywhere near as good a match as either of the others.

"The wand wood," their creator explained, nearly bouncing before her, "is matched to one's personality. A wand that is properly matched, that has _chosen_ its wizard, will grow attuned to him, but as a wizard grows, it is not unusual for his personality to change more quickly than a wand is able to attune itself, or to leave the resonance range of one wood entirely for another. This is why, as the oldest families know," he bowed slightly to Narcissa, who nodded, "it is best to test every seven years, or after life-altering events, to see whether a different wand has become a better match. The _core_ , on the other hand, resonates with your magic. Often a witch or wizard will find that their wands are all brothers, meaning their cores are drawn from the same magical creature, or cousins – drawn from closely related creatures."

Hermione must have looked slightly lost, because Narcissa interrupted with an example: "Both my core and my wood changed after Draco was born, but since then, both of my wands have used feathers from the same phoenix."

"Exactly. And here, we have a very unusual case, because the vine is more closely suited to your personality, though the dragon will support it, as they are fully matched, whereas the phoenix… this _particular_ phoenix… is more attuned to your magic, and of course, the holly supports it as well, so you see, they are equally drawn to you, but for different reasons."

"Can't you just take the feather out of the one and put it into the body of the other? Wouldn't that make it perfect?"

Ollivander chuckled. "No more than I could take your soul and replace it with young Master Malfoy's, Mr. Potter."

In that instant, Hermione realized what the problem must be. She groaned.

"No need for all that," Ollivander said jovially. "Either of these wands will work for you. The match is not _perfect_ , but then, all things change in time... I recommend the holly and phoenix feather. Not only is the tie to personality more malleable, but it speaks of destiny, and cycles complete…" he trailed off, staring intently at the scar on Hermione's forehead.

"Erm…" she hesitated, but a wand _was_ necessary, even one that had something to do with a strange destiny. "I suppose it will have to do, then."

"You won't be disappointed, Mr. Potter. And I think we can expect great things from you… yes…"

"Why is that, sir?" Draco asked, rather petulantly. He had grown bored with the proceedings, and was sulking about Hermione delaying his trip to the broom shop.

"Hmmm… because, Master Malfoy, the phoenix whose tail-feather resides in this wand donated only one other – a single brother wand… and that brother… thirteen and a half inches, yew, powerful and unyielding, gave Mr. Potter his very famous scar. He who must not be named did great things with that wand – terrible, yes, but great – and so to those who _know_ , it must be expected that its brother is also called to greatness…" Hermione shivered. Draco's mouth was hanging open.

Narcissa smirked, and cleared her throat. "Mr. Ollivander, perhaps now is not the time to scare the boys with talk of the Dark Lord and an unknown Destiny?" As Hermione was coming to expect, it was phrased as a suggestion, but there was a layer of steel beneath her words and a certain hardness in her eyes that indicated it was anything but.

The wandmaker hesitated for a long moment, but then said, "Perhaps you are correct. There is more of your eldest sister in you than you know, my lady," he grumbled, bustling over to an old-fashioned till.

"A compliment, I am sure," the witch answered drily, "to the witch who raised me. I shall endeavor to take it as such."

Narcissa paid for both wands, passing the old man a jingling leather bag with no discussion of the actual price, and swept out of the shop without a backward glance, the children (and the trunk) trailing behind her in a motley parade.

"That was… strange, right?" Hermione asked Draco.

He squeezed her hand reassuringly. "Mr. Ollivander is _always_ strange. I don't like him a bit."

Hermione nodded fervently. "I agree."

"Come along, children," Narcissa called back to them, and they hurried to catch up.

"Brooms?" Draco reminded her.

She gave him an exasperated look, but nodded, and he took off running, pulling Hermione along with him. Narcissa's admonishments followed them down the street, and their own laughter floated back as they dodged between the last shoppers of the day.

Hermione reflected that perhaps she really _had_ been missing out on having friends all these years, and grinned.

 _ **Lucius**_

Lucius Malfoy was a man accustomed to getting exactly what he wanted, exactly when he wanted it. For the most part, his days were spent dealing with his many business interests, both magical and muggle (investments which had been both economically and politically advantageous in the wake of the Dark Lord's downfall, despite their distastefulness). He also spent a great deal of time making his presence felt at the Ministry of Magic, keeping an eye on Fudge, the candidate he had recently backed for Minister, and an ear to the ground in order to stay several steps ahead of the latest Light legislation designed to force him (and all other traditionalist, Dark patriarchs) into destitute oblivion. On occasion, he even made an appearance in the Wizengamot – particularly for the more controversial votes – and he sat on the Hogwarts Board of Governors, which was a personal appointment, rather than a family appointment. Whenever possible, however, he left the day-to-day politicking to Narcissa. She seemed to enjoy that particular game far more than he ever had.

He could not say he loved the woman, but she _was_ a most effective partner, and, though he was loath to admit it, more than his equal when it came to plotting the continued rise of the House of Malfoy. He knew that his wife was still a Black at heart, and was certain she would turn on him without a single qualm if the circumstances ever warranted it, but until that time, she would be faithful to him and throw all her ruthlessness and cunning into writing legislation that benefited their current alliance. He trusted her that far, at least. And it seemed she trusted his judgement as well, expanding so decisively upon his initial bid to sway the boy toward friendship with Draco and subvert him from the Light. When she had denied close cousinship with the boy, he had thought she was suggesting that they ought not move too quickly, but perhaps seeing the child tear into the Old Goat had changed her mind.

Harry Potter, it seemed, was not the hero the Light made him out to be, but rather a blank slate, kept in total ignorance and isolation. He was remarkably open about what he had experienced in the muggle world, and it was clear that he laid the blame both for his abuse and for his current predicament – entering Magical Britain at the age of eleven, woefully under-informed – squarely at the feet of Albus Dumbledore… just as it should be. He had not even required any prompting from Lucius or Narcissa to accuse _the Headmaster of Hogwarts_ of aiding and abetting the abuse of _the Boy Who Lived_ by _muggle relations_ … It was almost too perfect. He would have to think of a suitable reward for Draco for befriending the lad. Perhaps that new broom he had been begging for…

He was in luck when he had arrived at the Office of Child Welfare – Hadrian Selwyn, a fellow supporter of the Dark (though never a marked Death Eater) was on duty, and more than willing to begin the process of re-assigning Potter's Magical Guardianship, quickly and quietly, as a favor to an old friend – all Lucius had to do was track down his current muggle guardians and get them to sign the boy over.

Several hours later, however, he was beginning to re-think whether he had truly been so lucky, having Dumbledore's little mistake dropped suddenly in his lap. He had questioned and _obliviated_ no fewer than six muggles in pursuit of the information he required before he found his way to what seemed to be some sort of child welfare office in Central London, and from there to a disgusting muggle home called 'Caraway House.'

The muggle in charge of the revolting… dwelling had been more than pleased to sign the paperwork, with the help of a light _confundus_ , but then it turned out that she was not, in fact, the one whose signature he needed: since the investigation of the muggles was not yet concluded, according to the Petunia Dursley was still _technically_ Harry Potter's guardian. But at least the old woman of Caraway House knew where to find her. It was on the boy's paperwork.

Petunia Dursley, home alone, had been easily intimidated into releasing custody of her nephew. Lucius was certain he had never met a more vile, mud-stained wretch in all his life. Her voice, her attitude, everything _about_ her made his fingers _itch_ to cast the sort of magic he hadn't done for nearly a decade, now. He couldn't _imagine_ what Dumbledore had been thinking, leaving his 'savior' with… _this_.

He maintained his composure through sheer force of will, _obliviating_ the muggle of his visit. If there was any justice in the world, Harry Potter's many rabid worshipers would descend upon this hellish wasteland of muggleishness and destroy the sickening creature and her so-called family in his name with every bit as much fervor as the Death Eaters would have done. It would, Lucius thought, be a lovely bit of irony.

Papers finally signed, Lucius returned to the Ministry, only to find that Dumbledore had made a move in the hours he had been absent, starting the paperwork for Amos and Cadi Diggory, Alice Longbottom's first cousin and his wife, to enter a challenge to the Malfoys' custody and guardianship application. He was certain Diggory had only agreed to spite him – the man had no love of Dumbledore, but a great hatred of Death Eaters. And it just got better: their solicitor was Andromeda Tonks. _Fantastic_. While Lucius was confident that his own suit would be successful in the long run (he could certainly provide for the boy better, and Diggory had barely retained custody over his _own_ children after being driven into St. Mungo's by grief in '81), engaging Narcissa's former sister to argue their case was tantamount to a declaration of war. He could already feel the case for full Regent's powers over House Potter rising all the way to a full Wizengamot decision.

Until a hearing could be arranged, however, since Lucius had gotten there first, and he did have the guardianship transfer form, signed by both the muggle government representative _and_ the Dursley slag, they had no grounds to insist upon the boy's removal from his wife's custody, at least for the moment.

He sent an update to Narcissa as he waited for Selwyn to process his forms. In light of the counter-suit, they hardly mattered. Tonks (every bit as clever and ruthless as her one-time sister), would argue that the dispensation of a woman who was herself in the process of being declared an unfit guardian ought to count _against_ the Malfoys, if at all. He and Narcissa would argue that they were simply following the approved procedure and move to dismiss the muggle's wishes as a factor. And then it would be down to reputation and financial obligations and political alignments and negotiation. _How tedious._

After that chore was done, he popped in on the Muggleworthy Excuse Committee and advised them to send someone around to notify the proper muggles (and probably also Deputy Headmistress McGonagall) that Harry Potter would be attending Hogwarts in September, since apparently no one else had, and made a note in his diary to bring it up at the next meeting of the Board of Governors, just to further blacken Dumbledore's eye.

After _that_ , he was waylaid by Augustine Yaxley, demanding to know what he was thinking, taking a public stand on behalf of Harry Potter in the midst of Diagon Alley. He clapped a hand on his former comrade's shoulder and gave the wizard his sharpest smile. "Augustine, my friend," he drawled, "I do believe that once you've heard the _rest_ of the story, you will be wholeheartedly in favor of my actions."

 _And then_ , he thought, _you can pass word to all of our old associates that I have a plan for Dumbledore's little mistake – oh yes. It wouldn't do for some over-zealous supporter of the Dark to attack the Potter boy before they stopped to think of the advantages of taking him well in hand and raising him to oppose the Light. This, well… If it all goes according to plan, this could change_ everything _._

 _ **Hermione**_

Bagnold's Brooms, the Quidditch shop, was rather like a fancy bike shop. It was cozy and clearly a family business, as the three shop assistants had to be father and sons. The younger wizards, perhaps eighteen or twenty years old, pulled Hermione and Draco aside to look at the latest deliveries and (after a bit of fawning over Harry Potter, during which Hermione shared an eye-roll with Draco) waxed poetic about the brooms' acceleration and cornering abilities, and which would be best for which positions in Quidditch, which was something like the National Sport of Magical Britain. Hermione decided it probably wasn't going to be her cup of tea. While flying on a broomstick sounded all well and good, like something a witch ought to do, she had never been one for organized sports. One where there were two oversized cannonballs flying around trying to knock you hundreds of feet to the ground sounded horrifying.

Hermione had left the boys to debate the outcome of the local Quidditch league's next match and was eavesdropping on the adults (Mr. Bagnold was trying to sell Narcissa on the latest Cleansweep based on its 'low input enchantment array' and she was arguing that low input enchantments were rubbish, because they were far less responsive to the rider 'by definition') when a small grey owl arrived. It flew straight to Narcissa and landed on her shoulder, carrying what turned out to be a message from Lucius. She raised an eye at its contents, then called Draco over to join them. The Bagnolds made themselves scarce, puttering around the shop.

"Draco, have you reached a decision?"

Draco's eyes strayed toward the new Nimbus he had been talking about since the moment Hermione had met him, but he sighed and admitted, "I don't want to buy it without test-flying it first."

"Well, there's still time, and it's not as though you could take it to Hogwarts with you anyway. Jamie, Lucius advises me that the paperwork has been… expedited, on the muggle end, though he is still working on getting the ministry to process things on our end. You may return home with us tonight, unless there is some desperately pressing reason to return to this… Caraway House."

Hermione considered. There wasn't really anything she wanted or needed that she had left with Matron Caraway. All of Harry Potter's clothes should be consigned to a rubbish bin; the things she had been wearing were borrowed from a charity box. She had nothing of her own. Even her papers had been kept in the official file. Perhaps she ought to go back and check in, just to make sure everything really was taken care of, but the Malfoys gave off such an air of propriety that she was certain they would have done everything correctly and got all the paperwork done and whatnot. There must be some official interaction between the magical and non-magical governments, and they would doubtless have pulled _every_ string to get the Famous Harry Potter back in Magical Britain. She was sure it was fine. And besides, she didn't know where the Malfoys lived, but it would probably take ages for Narcissa to take her back to Caraway House, and then get home.

"I'll go with you, Ms. Narcissa, if you don't mind. I wouldn't want to impose, of course."

Narcissa waved her concern away. "Nonsense. There's plenty of room, and it's Lammase'en – the more the merrier."

"Lammase'en?" Hermione asked, just as Draco whined, "Do we have to?"

"Mind your tongue!" Narcissa snapped, more sharply than she had spoken to her son all day. And then, in her normal, tranquil tones, "I'll explain when we get to the Manor, Jamie, dear."

"Stupid old holiday," Draco grumbled, then looked at his mother in outrage as he was silenced for the second time that day.

"Your father may think the Old Ways beneath the Malfoy dignity, but you are _my_ son as well, Draco Scorpius, and the Eternal House does _not_ neglect its origins!" The blonde witch hustled the children out the door and down the street to an out-of-the-way nook. There were red and blue squares marked out in glowing lines on the cobblestones. 'Diagon Alley North' was painted on the wall in ornate white letters.

Draco walked into the blue square as though he were headed to his doom, and his mother sent him out of it at once. "I shall take Jamie first, then the trunk, _then_ you, my most impertinent child. Side-along apparition," she added, at Hermione's obvious confusion. "Just relax," she smiled, leading Hermione into the blue square as Draco stomped out with a silent huff to sit on the trunk.

The blonde witch wrapped an arm around Hermione's shoulders and spun them in a tight circle, and then there was an unpleasant, too-tight, compressing sensation – 'Unpleasantly like being drunk,' as the Douglas Adams quote went – before they appeared in a well-lit white and silver room. There was a crest on one wall, a door in another, and benches along the other two. Narcissa settled her on one of these to catch her breath and get her bearings before she vanished with a snapping sound.

She reappeared half a minute later with Hermione's trunk (and a much louder crack), and then another minute after that with a scowling Draco, slightly out of breath. He was apparently able to speak again, because as soon as they appeared, he began complaining about being left for last.

"Draco, _enough_!" his mother finally snapped. "We have a _guest_ , and you are _embarrassing the House of Malfoy_ with your behavior!"

As though this was some kind of spell itself, the blond went very red, and bowed stiffly to his mother, then to Hermione. "Apologies for my ill-behavior. Please, I beg you do not allow it to taint your initial impression of the house of my forefathers." It sounded like an often-rehearsed apology.

"Um, no, it's fine," Hermione stuttered. It probably wasn't a good idea to point out that she expected nothing less than for the youngest Malfoy to be a spoilt brat by now. It didn't bother her too much. She was herself a bit spoilt – or had been, before suddenly waking up as an abused orphan boy. (She had discovered that that was the sort of thing that really put one's priorities in order.) And besides, Lord and Lady Malfoy had made a much stronger and more positive impression for their house in sticking up to Dumbledore for her.

Apparently this was an acceptable answer, because Narcissa nodded. "Draco, you may give Jamie a brief tour. I will have the elves take his trunk to the Green Suite. Please dress for dinner at the usual time. Mopsy!"

Draco tugged Hermione out of the room just as a small creature dressed in a tea-towel appeared.

"What on Earth?"

"It's just a House Elf. Come on, I need to make sure all my things got delivered, but then I can show you how to dress for dinner."

"You _dress for dinner_?"

"Welcome to Malfoy Manor," he said with a superior smirk. "This is the Core of the house. It was built in the 1600s by… Leopold Malfoy, I think. It's been the primary residence for the Family since Grindelwald's War, when Seigneur Armand moved the seat back from France."

" _Parlez vous francais_?" Hermione asked.

Draco grinned, and she was briefly overwhelmed by a babble of French.

" _Lentament, s'il vous plait_!" she laughed. "I'm still learning."

" _Evidemment_ ," the boy smirked. "Mother will be pleased, though. We still have family in France, and of course every accomplished young gentleman speaks French." He rolled his eyes to show what he thought of being accomplished, presumably. Hermione could sympathize. Her own father also had relatives in France, whom they occasionally visited. Her mother had demanded that she at least be capable of politeness in the language, though she wasn't anywhere near fluent. Unfortunately she couldn't tell Draco that, since Harry Potter apparently had no relatives at all. "Anyway, you only have to use 'vous' for strangers and older people – Mesdames and Messiers."

" _Bien. Et merci_."

" _Quels sont les amis_? Anyway, I was saying about the house," he said, leading her up a flight of stairs and down a hall, "This is the core, the oldest part, with the kitchens, scullery and laundry in the basement, apparition room, grand ballroom, and grand dining room on the ground floor, a bunch of old bedrooms that have been converted into studies, sitting rooms, and parlors on the second, and elf quarters on the third. The Upper East Wing is my wing – second floor of the East Wing, that is. There are three suites – mine, the Green Suite, and the Blue Suite which is actually the Nursery, the Classroom, the Children's Study, and the Lesser Library. Downstairs East Wing is the guest wing. Small ballroom, Main Library, sitting rooms, parlors, and four smaller suites. Upper West Wing is the Master's Wing – the Lord and Lady's suites, their studies, the Lady's Parlor, the Master's Library, and the Solar. Lower West Wing is the Dowager Wing, which is closed, since Grandmother Malfoy died, and none of the French Malfoys are visiting at the moment. Mostly we keep all the really annoying portraits there."

"Annoying… portraits?"

"You know, all the ones that can't keep their three-hundred year old opinions to themselves? Great Aunt Selene really dislikes Mother for some reason. She called her a really nasty name when I was five, in front of a whole room full of guests. So she's been bound to her frame and exiled to the elf quarters, but the rest of them are just… old. They seem perfectly happy being out of sight and out of mind, so long as they get to talk to each other."

"Portraits have… personalities? And… talk?"

"Of course they do! Otherwise you might as well just take a photo, wouldn't you?"

"Oh. Muggle portraits are just… paint. They don't do anything."

"How _dull_... How do they get to know the old family members?"

"Um… journals? Stories their parents tell them, too, I guess. You mean you can actually talk to your relatives after they've… died?"

"If they had a portrait made. You should ask the goblins if your parents did. Your father should have, at least, when he became Lord Potter, but they were at war, so…" Draco trailed off rather awkwardly.

"I'll – I'll do that." This was all so very surreal.

They were saved from the sudden awkwardness between them by their arrival at the Green Suite, and the Heir's Suite, across the hall. Hermione's rooms reminded her a bit of her own, re-decorated the previous summer to be just as grown-up, though hers was all warm autumn colors, and this reminded her of a summer forest, all green and brown. The carpets were rich and dark, and the walls nearly black up to waist-height, where they met a warm, brown molding and then became an icy, minty shade. There was an open front room with several armchairs and a sofa, upholstered in a brighter, leafier color, with a table and four chairs that matched the moldings and the mantle above the small fireplace. The bedroom had another fireplace, as well as a bed with posts, but no curtains, a desk, several empty bookshelves, and an armoire. Hermione's trunk was sitting at the end of the bed. The attached bathroom was small but serviceable, with a claw-footed tub, toilet, sink, and _talking mirror?_ How very _strange_.

Draco was still keeping up a running commentary on the house and, now, its grounds. "Hmmm… what else? There's the Quidditch pitch, obviously. I'll show you tomorrow and teach you how to fly, it's the best! And the outbuildings: greenhouses, breeding sheds – not allowed in there – kennels, mews, owlry, and stables – we've got a matched pair of Abraxans – and the carriage-house, of course. Gardens, the stupid hedge maze, and the orchard. There are tenants, too, a couple farms and the muggle village of Dilby, but you can't see any of them from here. Oh! And the ritual room, the 'north wing.' Can't forget that, since it is a holiday. That has a path that leads to a little stone circle. Mother says it pre-dates the Roman presence in Britain, and it's _probably_ why the house was built here in the first place."

After Hermione had poked around her suite and pronounced it satisfactory (far more than, really), she followed him across the hall, where his own rooms were similarly decorated, but in charcoal and silver, rather than different shades of green. He had also plastered the walls with Appleby Arrows posters (men and women in blue and silver costumes, flying on broomsticks, presumably playing Quidditch, which moved, but didn't talk) and there was a vast array of games, books, and puzzles strewn about. He flushed slightly as he explained that his mother had forbidden the elves to tidy for him more than once a week, and admitted that perhaps he would bother to do for himself, now she was there to see.

The robes he had been fitted for and his new school supplies were laid out on his bed, and he pronounced them all to be in order before officiously pulling clothes from his wardrobe, demonstrating the layers of formal dress they were expected to wear for dinner, and how to tie a tie. It was, basically, one of everything he had prodded her into buying at Madam Malkin's: slacks, shirt, vest and tie, with a robe over it all, though she could tell just by looking that the quality of the dinner robes he pulled out for himself was far nicer than anything Madam Malkin had had in stock.

Perhaps ten minutes later, as she was getting him to demonstrate the tie again, a bell rang to signal dinner. Still somewhat overawed by her surroundings, Hermione followed Draco quietly to what he referred to as the _Small_ Dining Room, which was still nearly half again as large as her parents'. If she wasn't completely turned around, it was about in the center of the house, on the second floor. Narcissa was already there, and explained that Lucius would be late. Hermione had the impression that without her, dinner would have been a very quiet, polite affair, but before she realized that, she had asked about Lammase'en, and what the holiday entailed, so instead of stiff silence, she and Draco were treated to a lecture on traditional magical holidays, and the Dark and Light Powers, and an explanation of the differences between the worship practices of the House of Black and the House of Malfoy.

Translating it all into more familiar terms, she understood the Malfoys as being rather like her own parents – the sort of family who went to church exactly two times a year, and otherwise didn't bother with religious nonsense. Except instead of Christmas and Easter, the Malfoys celebrated Samhain (Halloween) and Yule. The Blacks, including Narcissa, celebrated a whole host of holidays, including a two-day celebration called Lammas, on which they made sacrifices to the Dark Powers, which quite frankly sounded ominous.

"What exactly _are_ the Dark Powers," she asked rather hesitantly. "And, um… what kind of sacrifices do you make to them?"

Narcissa smiled, obviously pleased that _one_ of the children at her table was interested in her beliefs. "The short answer, of course, is that the Powers are the Powers. There are eight Dark Powers – realms of belief and effect which have magical weight or significance: Binding, Chaotic, Deathly, Deceptive, Destructive, Infernal, Solitary, and Tangible. They form dyads with their conceptual opposites, the Light Powers: Deliberative, Orderly, Lively, Naïve, Constructive, Mundane, Cooperative, and Intangible. All sixteen Powers may be called upon to affect good or ill, to cause joy or pain. Nearly any effect that can be achieved by invoking the Light Powers can also be achieved by invoking the Dark and vice versa. The labels of light and dark are ultimately political, and negotiated like any other aspect of social interaction and culture.

"Teasing apart the magic from the politics is a difficult task, but it helps if you can remember that what we think of as good and evil are human notions. Powers, like people, are neither one nor the other in absolute. The Deceptive Power, for example, governs wisdom, experience, and age alongside subterfuge and misdirection. The Solitary Power governs independence and self-sufficiency as well as self-interest. The Intangible Power governs both love and hate. The Naïve Power governs the thoughtlessness of youth as well as its potential.

"As I believe I mentioned, the House of Black follows the Dark, so for Lammas we honor the Binding Power, in much the same way the Light honor the Orderly Power. In the Black ritual, in which you are invited to participate, we offer up blood and magic to renew our ties to the Family and the Powers, and are rewarded as our minds and magic are strengthened against external influences. Break the binding, and the reward is revoked, leaving us vulnerable to those who would seek to compel or bind us."

"That sounds, um…"

"Way scarier than it actually is," Draco said, rolling his eyes. "You prick a finger on the athame and mother calls on the Binding Power, and you repeat the Acknowledgment of the Dark – and… I can't really describe the rest of it, but it's not that bad, and then, after, mother renews her vow of loyalty to the House of Black – we don't, obviously, because I'm the Heir of Malfoy, and you're the Heir of Potter – and then it's done."

"Why were you complaining, earlier, then?" Hermione hissed.

" _Because_ , it's positively _barbaric,_ " he whispered back, though apparently not quietly enough.

"I heard that, Draco Scorpius!" Narcissa glared at her son before turning to Hermione. "The Black rituals are among the most powerful still in use in Magical Britain, and accordingly the most _primal_ , but they are not and have never been _barbaric._ Draco simply doesn't like the sight of blood."

"It's _icky_."

His mother sighed. "Do endeavor to elevate your vocabulary, dear."

" _Revolting_ , then."

Hermione sniggered.

"Well, if you are both _quite_ done, we can retire to the Ritual Room and then, my darling son, you will not have to worry about seeing another drop of blood until… Samhain, I expect. Unless Severus decides to make your first month's potions lessons _really_ advanced."

"They do holiday rituals at Hogwarts, too?" Hermione asked, fascinated.

Narcissa smirked. "Not _officially_ , but the Second Rule of Slytherin House is _don't get caught_. Come along, boys."

 _ **Severus**_

Severus spent his afternoon in much the same fashion as Lucius, attempting to locate Petunia Evans and her husband Vernon Dursley. He had met the couple on multiple occasions, and had even accompanied Lily to their wedding, in the summer of '77. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Unfortunately he had little idea what had become of the shrew since he and Lily had graduated from Hogwarts.

The Death Eaters had _ways_ of tracking down even the most recalcitrant of muggles, on the rare occasion that they had wanted to target a particular one. With a bit of blood or hair, even from a second or third-degree relation, it would be a simple matter to brew an appropriate potion, or even create a simple scrying focus (though such magic was not his forte). Unfortunately, however, he had no such link to Petunia. He was hardly about to go accost the Malfoys in public or in their own home to acquire a bit of the child's hair, especially on Dumbledore's orders. To do so would tip his hand far too soon – it was far better to have some idea of the particulars of the situation before approaching them.

With only ten-year-old memories and a picture of her long-dead sister to guide him, it would take far more time and power than he was willing to invest in any Potter to find Petunia by magic. A handful of transfigured muggle coinage, a telephone directory, and a payphone would be much easier, albeit far more tedious. There were not so many Dursleys listed, but it did take some time to track down directories for various counties. He struck gold in Surrey, calling Petunia and remaining on the line just long enough to confirm that she was Mrs. V. Dursley of 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging. After that, it was a simple matter to locate a map of the town, calculate the proper apparition coordinates, and interrupt the suburbanites' desperately normal dinner plans.

He did not bother knocking at the unlocked door of the depressingly hyper-mundane home. How _anyone_ could stand living in such mass-produced houses, Severus didn't know. He might have hated their rundown neighborhood in Cokeworth every bit as much as the Evans girls had, but at least the homes there had _character_ and _history_. This was like walking into some _geminio_ -struck nightmare. The only distinguishing feature of Number 4 was a quickly-decaying perimeter-ward that tugged half-heartedly at his Dark Mark as he crossed it.

The inside of the… house wasn't much better – not just clean and tidy, but _sterile_. He would be hard-pressed to believe anyone lived there at all. It looked like the sort of thing you would see in a magazine, if not for the revolting photos of a morbidly obese blonde child perched on several flat surfaces. He looked much like a washed-out, less-fit version of his father. Hideous.

The child in question was the first person to notice his appearance in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room, his mother occupied in nattering on about the neighbors and her husband fully engaged in the casserole heaped on his plate.

"Who're you?" the boy asked rudely.

The adults looked around, at that, Vernon letting out a roar of objection, and Petunia shrieking at the top of her lungs. He couldn't help but snigger slightly at that. It was never not funny to sneak up on Petunia. Her reaction hadn't changed appreciably in twenty-five years.

"Severus Snape, what the bloody hell are you doing here?!"

"Can't an old family friend drop by for dinner?" he asked, taking an uninvited seat.

"Oh no you don't," Vernon objected. "I remember you, you ruddy blighter! You were that creepy bloke my Pet's worthless sister used to – gak!"

"Severus! Don't!" Petunia screeched. Severus, who had not, in fact, done anything other than glare particularly fiercely, causing Vernon to choke on a bit of his own spittle, gave her his best mocking stare.

"Do you know what I did after I graduated, Petunia?" he asked conversationally.

"No! And I don't care!"

"Oh, but I think you do. You see, I joined an… organization. A _revolution,_ you might say… though that's not what our enemies called us, of course." He delighted in the expression of terror that formed on the woman's sharp features.

"Y-you were one of – one of _them_ ," she accused him feebly. "Those murdering freaks!"

"Mum? What's going on? Who is he?" the boy asked petulantly. Severus silenced him with a glare before inclining his head ever so slightly.

"You and your… husband may want to take that into consideration when you speak of Lily in my presence."

"W-what do you want?"

"Tell me about… Harry Potter," he commanded, using silent legilimency to slip behind her eyes. The name sparked anger, resentment, even the slightest bit of guilt, and fear, almost overwhelming – a heady combination. The images that accompanied it were rage-inspiring: Petunia spreading lies about her troublemaking nephew; a little boy, a James Potter look-alike, with Lily's eyes, being forced to clean and cook to 'earn his keep,' watching piteously as the other boy was favored over him at every turn, being thrown into a wall by Vernon, having his glasses broken by the other boy, cowering before Petunia as she screeched at him, being thrown into the cupboard under the stairs, where he _slept_ ; police showing up and taking the child away…

"We took him in, the ungrateful little bastard – treated him like our own son."

Severus barred his teeth at the woman. "Don't _lie_ to me, _Pet_. You never could…"

Petunia shuddered. "Are you calling my wife a liar?" Vernon rumbled, desperately attempting to have some input into the conversation.

The wizard raised an eyebrow at him, implying that he was too stupid to live. " _Yes_."

"Bloody fucking freak, barging in here unannounced – I ought to…"

"Ought to _what_ , Vernon?" Severus asked, pulling his wand slowly from his sleeve.

"Put it away! We're not having any of that freakish nonsense here in this house!" The ruddy-faced man was going an interesting puce color.

"Oh, I hardly need a wand to ruin your life," he sneered, complying, but catching the muggle's eye and planting a compulsion in his subconscious, " _Vernon._ " The man stood up from his seat with a look of pure horror, and slammed his head into the nearest wall.

His wife and son screamed. "Dad!" "Vernon!" The man slammed his head into the wall again, and fell to the ground. Petunia rushed to help him to his feet.

Severus had to work very hard not to laugh. Who knew the Dark Lord's favorite parlor trick would one day come in handy? Wordless, wandless compulsions were not his specialty, and they hardly made an impact on a wary wizard, but they could be used to great effect on muggles. Vernon Dursley in particular was so weak-minded he would probably be beating his head against walls every time he heard his name for the next two weeks.

"What've you done to him, you monster?" Petunia cried, while the boy cowered behind his parents.

" _Magic_ ," he said spitefully, taking great pleasure in the horror evident on her horsey face. "Would you care to reconsider your previous response regarding your nephew?"

"What about him, then? We want nothing to do with him! We never did!"

"Oh, _that_ was _obvious_ , Tuney, _darling_." He let as much venom as possible slip into his tone, moderated and controlled as ever. She blanched.

"He's gone! He's gone! CPS came and got him, and they took him away, and good riddance!"

The professor stood, to loom more intimidatingly over her. "Child Services came and took away your sister's son – the one you made sleep in a closet, the one you let your husband toss around, the one you _lied_ about, and treated like a servant-boy, whom you stood by and watched as your son _beat_ , whose life you made into a _mockery_ of familial _normality –_ and you have the nerve to call _me_ a monster. What have I done to him, you ask? _Far_ less than Lily would have, were she the one standing here before you to see what you have done to her son! Your parents would be _so_ ashamed of what you've become," he fumed, shaking his head. It was true. Mr. and Mrs. Evans had never liked him much, but he had known them well enough to know that they would never have stood for their daughter to treat their grandson so abominably.

Apparently invoking them was one step too far for the enraged housewife. "Don't you speak of them!" she shrieked, attempting to stab him with her dinner knife. He removed it from her deftly. "You killed them! You and your war! You admitted it! You were one of _them_! It was freaks like you who killed my parents!"

That was… also true. He had even been there in person, the night the Evanses were killed. But he would not be spoken to like that. Not by a _child abuser_ like Petunia Dursley. "It's people like _you_ that are the reason people like _me_ exist!" he hissed, nose to nose with her. " _You deserve everything you get!_ "

He turned on his heel in a swirl of black, apparating away from the miserable muggles before he did something even more unfortunate than _compelling_ Dursley, like force the harpy to claw her own eyes out.

He did not return to his rooms, but walked slowly up toward the Castle, finding a seat near the Lake to meditate instead. He was still trying to bring his emotions under control and deciding exactly how to deal with the new information – that Harry Potter ( _Lily's child_ ) had, in fact, been abused and neglected by his relatives, and could not possibly be returned to them from the Malfoy's hands – when a St. Mungo's Messenger Elf appeared beside him, desperately seeking his assistance. He went. Whatever emergency required a potions master or mind healer with expertise in the Dark Arts was bound to be suitably distracting as to be a relief from his current preoccupation.

 _ **Hermione**_

The Malfoy Family Ritual Room was a stark space, much plainer than the rest of the house: an undecorated stone box with vaulted ceilings, and a large, complicated star and circle design carved into the floor, filled with what Draco said was silver and iron. A skylight over the center of the room let a bit of moonlight filter in, adding a touch of eerie mystery to the space. There was a sense of magical potential in the air, much like the feeling that had permeated the wand shop, but there was also something… un-lived-in about it, as though the room was hardly ever used.

Narcissa ignored the large, central design, leading the children to a small altar at the northernmost corner of the room. This was made of a single, rough-hewn bluestone, which reminded Hermione of Stonehenge, topped with a slab of some polished black stone. The black stone had a labyrinthine design carved into it. There were three fresh candles along the far side, in holders covered with waterfalls of old wax. Narcissa lit them with a whisper and a spark dancing straight from her fingers, and the air filled with the scent of beeswax.

The light of the candles showed a depression in the center of the labyrinth, a clear crystal goblet, and a black-bladed, wickedly sharp-looking knife. Narcissa bowed her head as though praying for a long moment. Hermione looked to Draco in confusion. He bumped her shoulder with his own and gave her a small smile. She returned it, silently resolving to just follow his lead.

Then Narcissa began to speak.

"Dark Powers," she called, her voice at first as quiet as a whisper, but quickly gaining in strength, resonating around them. "I stand before you on this night of power, a Daughter of the House of Black, to renew my ties to the Dark and my Family. I bring before you my son, young but powerful, known to you, and my ward, ignorant of our ways, but eager to learn and to take his rightful place in this, our world of magic. Darkness, I call to you, begging a sign – hear me, and heed my call!"

The goblet began to glow softly, drinking in the light from the candles and radiating it back. The space around it seemed to grow darker in comparison. The lady lifted it with both hands, in a sort of salute, before settling it on the altar again, closer to the children, and taking up the knife. She pricked her son's finger gently, and squeezed it until three drops had fallen into the crystal, then turned to do the same to Hermione. Hermione hesitated, because _this is how you get AIDS_ , but then shook her head and held out a finger. She was being silly. Draco had done it, after all, and it couldn't be worse than the goblin knife, earlier. She hadn't seen _that_ sterilized, either.

Hermione's blood joined Draco's in the cup, followed by Narcissa's. The witch then added what had to be some kind of alcohol, a flask taken from the pocket of her robes – the fumes burned Hermione's nose and eyes from here – and raised the goblet again.

"I call upon the Binding Power, by the names of Black, of Malfoy and Potter, to witness our dedication to the Dark!" she declaimed, before pouring the contents of the goblet into the depression at the center of the altar. The liquid defied gravity, rising and spreading to fill the labyrinth, the candle light glinting off it like black ice.

"I dedicate myself to the dark," she said clearly. "By my name, my blood, and my magic, let it know me."

Draco repeated the sentence, and then, when she hesitated, pinched Hermione, who did the same. This must be the Acknowledgment he had mentioned.

"I welcome the magic of the night and the space between the stars – come into my heart and be one with me."

Again, the children repeated the ritual phrase.

"I give myself over to the powers of the dark, and claim for myself their strength."

A cold, tingling energy seemed to fill Hermione as she repeated the third phrase, raising her up and tying her down all at once.

"Blood and magic I offer as symbol of this covenant – let the Powers guide me, in seeking the blessing of the Dark."

As soon as these words left Hermione's mouth, the cold, tingling magic seemed to take her over, raising her left hand and thrusting it out, against her will, over the labyrinth. She felt terror rise up within her as she realized she could not stop it, could not put her hand down. Narcissa, with an otherworldly smile, looked down at her and said, "Don't be afraid," and then the candles went out, and the alcohol filling the labyrinthine altar design burst into white flames.

Hermione shrieked, Narcissa's admonishment not to be afraid meaning very little when faced with the sight of her hand in a goddamn fire. It took a long moment for the reality that her skin was not burning to break through the gibbering panic that filled her mind. She couldn't have said how long the fire burned, curling around her fingers, at first warm, but growing ever colder. The chill crept up her arm, spreading through her chest and then the rest of her body. Just when it felt like she would never be warm again, something within her twisted, and suddenly, every feeling of discomfort vanished. By the time the fire extinguished itself, she was only breathing slightly too fast, and her heart rate had mostly recovered from her fright.

Draco, nose to nose with her, was smirking. He took her arm, still held out over the altar, and pulled it down, before pulling her away from the altar entirely. "That's our part done," he whispered in her ear, and she nodded, shaken.

They watched in silence as Narcissa brought a stone out of her pocket, black, with shimmering traces of red fire within it. Hermione gasped, at first, thinking it an enormous opal, before she realized that the light was coming from within the stone. The lady set it within the now-empty hollow of the altar, and sliced her palm above it. She gave no sign of pain, but within seconds, fat, black drops were falling like rain. The stone seemed to be drinking them in, the red at its heart growing brighter.

"I am Narcissa Zaniah, youngest daughter of the House of Black. On this, the night of Binding, I recall and re-affirm the bonds of Family: to those long departed, to those absent from me, and to those yet to come. I remember from whence we came, and… and I beg the Powers recognize the sacrifice I have laid before them, and show me the way into the future." This time, the words were honest and simple, with no trace of the resonant power her previous invocation had held. There were tears on the lady's cheeks as she stood, head bowed and, Hermione suddenly understood, _begging_ before her gods. "Please," she whispered, "do not let the Eternal House fade into obscurity."

And then there was another woman present – or rather, darkness distilled into the shape of a woman. She? It? Appeared without pomp or circumstance or any sort of ceremony, walking slowly from the patch of moonlight at the center of the room to the shadowed corner and the crying witch. From the way Draco stiffened beside her and let out a small 'eep,' Hermione gathered that this had not been expected. The woman-shaped darkness, its features obscure, reached out and lifted Narcissa's chin to meet the place where its eyes ought to have been.

"Narcissa Zaniah," it spoke, its words coming from everywhere and nowhere at once, reaching Hermione's mind, she thought, by some route other than her ears. "The misbegotten flower of the Blacks, now no longer one of them, and yet the only one left loyal to both the family and the Dark…"

Narcissa's eyes flashed as she stood straight in the face of the power she worshipped, a goddess come to Earth. "By the grace of the Dark, I am and always will be a Black in every way that matters."

An unsettling chuckle filled the room, like a tiger's growl. "You know the stories, little flower. The Covenant has been broken – a child of Black has turned away from the Dark, and so we withdraw the gifts of Onyx and Mela."

"It wasn't his fault!"

"The reason matters not, little flower. The Covenant is broken."

"But it can be foraged anew! I have brought you his Heir!" Narcissa bargained. "In time he will succeed, and the House will once again be devoted to the Dark."

"No," the Darkness said, its tone final and without remorse. "There is no guarantee of that – the future is yet unwritten. The Name is lost and the House of Black is fallen these ten years and more... For your sacrifice, which offers a _chance_ of redemption… we will offer a _chance_ in turn, but no promise. Be warned, little flower, eternity is no longer yours by right."

Narcissa gasped, falling to her knees and reaching up in supplication. "Thank you! Thank you! The indulgence of your grace will not be wasted."

"One has sundered himself from us irreparably. One has done the same to you. These are beyond saving. Three are lost, but may yet be found within our realms: One to age, one to madness, one to a too-early death. You must choose, Narcissa Zaniah, choose and let your stolen sacrifice buy the House of Black a second chance."

Narcissa, stared, eyes wide, for a long moment before she whispered, " _Regulus_. Bring back the one lost to death."

"So shall it be," the Darkness whispered, everywhere and nowhere. It – she – bowed, as though to brush a kiss across Narcissa's brow, then vanished as silently as it had appeared. A bare second later, a body appeared with a crack in the patch of moonlight at the center of the room, soaking wet, battered and bleeding. He struggled for air for a moment before falling still. Hermione leapt into action without thinking, years of swimming lessons and their accompanying first-aid training shocking her into movement at the sight of a man drowning on dry land.

So far as she could tell, there was nothing blocking his airways but water, and his heart was still beating, if weakly. She forced as much air as she could into his lungs. It wasn't much, but a bit of water burbled out. Before she could attempt a second breath, Narcissa came to her senses and cast some kind of bluish-purple spell at the man. He began coughing up water immediately. His eyes opened, wide and panicked, briefly, and then he passed out again.

"Mopsy!" Narcissa shouted, and the little towel-clad creature appeared with a pop. "Take us to St. Mungo's Emergency at once!"

The elf looked around, saw Regulus, and gave a squeak of horror before grabbing its mistress' hand, touching the man's bare leg, and vanishing with a crack.

Hermione and Draco were left staring at the spot where they had been, rather shocked.

"What just happened?" Hermione asked after a very long moment.

"I think my cousin Regulus just came back from the dead. Um… mostly."

"Oh." What else was there to say? "Is that… normal?"

"Not really, no."

After another long minute, Draco struggled to his feet, then helped Hermione up. "We should…"

"Yeah. Um…"

They wandered back to the house, each lost in their own thoughts. Hermione followed Draco back to their rooms, where she decided a very long, very hot shower was in order, followed by many hours writing down everything that had happened while it was all fresh in her mind. It had been an extremely long day, and she wasn't really sure she understood everything (or anything) that had happened.

By the end of it, she had decided one thing was for certain: 'Whatever happened next' was now, definitely, happening.


	42. Mindswap 4

**Thursday 1 August 1991**

 ** _Lucius_**

Severus Snape was very obviously _not_ in a good mood. This would doubtless come as no surprise to most people who had met him – his fellow professors remembered him as a disgruntled student, had seen him grow into a bitter man; his own students experienced him as strict and harsh; on the rare occasion that he was called to St. Mungo's to lend an expert hand to the reversal of a particularly dark and complex spell or potion, his patients, without fail, considered him to have the worst bedside manner of any Healer they'd ever met.

Lucius, on the other hand, _was_ slightly surprised. Granted, part of that was due to the fact that Severus Snape had made himself at home at Lucius' table. And part of it was due to the fact that the potions master was awake so early – it had just gone six. But on the rare occasion that he saw Snape outside of Hogwarts, he tended to be in a relatively good mood, or at least amiably snarky. The glower he was wearing at the moment rivalled some of those Lucius had seen when the younger wizard had been completing his Potions Mastery and weathering Bellatrix's suspicions regarding his loyalty.

Lucius had reluctantly dragged himself out of bed at his usual half-past five after getting in around eleven to find the children abed and his wife absent. The elves had babbled something about St. Mungo's. He had established that Narcissa was only visiting someone – neither she nor Draco was injured – and waved off the rest of the explanation in favor of bed. He'd had far too many drinks with Augustine. They'd been joined by Nott and Avery after dinner, and he'd been obliged to begin explaining his position on the Potter boy _again_ , with even more alcohol. He was satisfied in the end that they would pass on the word that the Potter boy was not to be harmed while in his care – he was far more valuable at the moment as a political token or even a potential recruit than as a sacrifice for an absent lord. But he wasn't in a particularly good mood himself.

"Lucius," Snape nodded briefly.

"Severus," Lucius nodded back.

Snape passed him the front section of the Prophet. The headline screamed _Harry Potter Claims Abuse – Headmaster Dumbledore to Blame?_ That _was_ enough to cheer Lucius slightly. A few days under the full glare of Rita Skeeter's near-libelous "reporting" spotlight should nicely hamper Dumbledore's side of custody battle, regardless of the Diggorys' suitability. And he hadn't even had to tip her off.

"Narcissa mentioned you spent last night discussing recent political developments with some of the old crowd."

"Yaxley, Nott, and Avery," Lucius nodded. "They seemed receptive to mine and Narcissa's strategy. They've agreed to spread the word not to interfere."

"Have you spoken with Narcissa lately?"

"She was still abed when I looked in on her."

Snape scowled. "She said she would wake you to speak with you. We only returned from St. Mungo's two hours ago."

"Ah, yes," Lucius drawled. "The elves did mention something about one of her cousins being in hospital – Walburga, was it?" There weren't so very many Blacks left, truly.

"Regulus," Snape said shortly.

"Regulus? But…"

"It was him," the Potions Master insisted.

"Are you sure?"

"He was in no state to fend off a legilimency probe. There can be no doubt."

"But we saw – We were there when Bellatrix burned his body!"

"My understanding is that Narcissa sacrificed Harry Potter's Choice to dedicate himself to the Dark in exchange for a chance to revive her fallen House."

" _What_?!" Lucius heard his own question echoed from the doorway at a much higher frequency.

"What does that even _mean?_ " Harry Potter stood in the doorway, mouth gaping.

"Dark Powers, she didn't… How?"

"Regulus' return argues that she did. As for how… Sit down, Mr. Potter."

The boy hesitated, but, after a moment, did as he was told, taking the seat across from Snape and pouring himself a glass of juice.

Lucius formulated introductions automatically: "Severus, this is Harry James, Heir Ascendant of the Noble House of Potter. Jamie, meet Potions Master Severus Snape, Senior Professor and Head of Slytherin House at Hogwarts."

"Professor? How do you do. I've got about a hundred questions for you, if you've time – about the school and the Headmaster and books and things – I've got a list! But first, what was that about 'sacrificing Harry Potter's choice to dedicate himself to the Dark?'" The boy glared at the two men suspiciously. "Does it have something to do with Draco's cousin showing up out of nowhere?"

Snape raised an eyebrow at this display of early-morning enthusiasm and took a long, deliberate draught from his coffee before responding: "Mr. Potter. How do you do."

Lucius smirked at his entirely unamused tone. Jamie wasn't really any worse than Draco on a tear, but Snape had always been far more reserved, even when _he_ was eleven and Lucius was fourteen. He was certain the younger wizard was having flash-backs of James Potter and Lily Evans, both of whom had been as outgoing as their son. "Draco's cousin?" he asked.

"Draco said that his cousin Regulus seemed to have come back from the dead, mostly."

"Regulus is Narcissa's first-cousin – your godfather's brother," Lucius explained. "He died in 1979 after betraying the Dark Lord – or, well… attempting to do so."

"And Ms. Narcissa brought him back to life? How?"

"That, I think, is something we would all like to know," Snape noted.

Lucius nodded. "You were the one who was there. I'm afraid you shall have to tell us," he told the child.

"Oh!" the boy bit his lip. "Well, um… let's see. We had dinner, and Ms. Narcissa told Draco and me all about the Powers and the traditional holidays, and then we went to the Ritual Room. We used the bluestone altar, with the black carved labyrinth-thing on top." Lucius nodded. The Black Family Altar. It was the only part of the ritual room that received regular use, given his family's disinclination to observe the Old Holidays over the past few generations. "Right, well, she lit the candles, and asked the Darkness for a sign that it? They? Were listening. Um… do you want exact words?"

"Not necessary," Snape declared.

"Okay, so this crystal goblet started glowing, and she picked it up and kind of raised it toward the altar, like a salute. And then she pricked Draco's finger for three drops of blood, and then mine, and then her own, that went into the goblet, and then some kind of alcohol, and then she poured it into the labyrinth. After that, said she was dedicating herself to the dark welcoming the darkness into her heart and giving herself to the Dark Powers in exchange for their strength, and seeking their blessing. Draco and I repeated each line after her. And then our hands were kind of like… held out over the labyrinth – I wasn't doing it, but I couldn't help it. And the alcohol burst into flames, which was _terrifying_ , but it burnt _cold_ , like it was ice, spreading through my body, and then when I felt like I'd never be warm again, it was like something in me… twisted, maybe? And it stopped being cold, and the fire burnt itself out, and then Draco said we – the two of us – were done."

Lucius exchanged a look with Snape. "Well, that explains how she managed to sacrifice his choice in the matter," Snape observed.

"What do you mean?" the child asked, with poorly masked anger in his tone. "What did she do to me?"

"Jamie," Lucius said gently. "What did you think you were doing, when you repeated the words Narcissa and Draco were saying?"

"I was just being polite! That's what you _do_ when other people invite you to their church! You go and you follow along and –"

Snape coughed slightly, interrupting the boy's tirade. "There is rather less _faith_ in magical rituals than muggle Christian observations," he said drily. "By swearing yourself to the Dark, giving it your blood, inviting it into yourself – you invited it to attune your magic to the darker end of the power spectrum. That would be the part where it felt like something inside you twisted, and you were suddenly comfortable with the presence of the dark magic in the fire."

"So – so, what? I was just _tricked_ into joining the Dark Side?!"

"Ah…" Lucius hesitated, reluctant to alienate the child, but that did rather describe what had happened.

"Yes," Snape said, his tone betraying absolutely no emotional investment in the child's reaction whatsoever.

"But… but she and Draco made it sound like I was just… just acknowledging the fact that the Powers _existed_ , not selling my soul, for Christ's sake!"

"Stop being so dramatic, Potter." Snape rolled his eyes. Dramatically. Lucius suppressed a snigger. "I'm a dark wizard. Lucius is a dark wizard. Narcissa is a Black, so they probably dedicated her at age three or something. It's not the end of the world, I _assure_ you."

Lucius nodded hastily. "Draco was dedicated when he was seven. All it really means is that you'll find it much easier to cast dark spells and somewhat uncomfortable to cast light spells."

"And White Arts are out of the question," Snape added.

"No one uses White Arts anymore," Lucius pointed out, shooting the younger wizard a glare that said _shut up, you moron._

Snape ignored it, adding: "In the interests of full disclosure."

"What are White Arts? And why are they out of the question?"

"They're rituals that call on the Light Powers, or the Light as an entity, to effect a result," the Potions Master explained. "Black Arts call on the Dark Powers or the Dark. The Light Powers generally do not answer the call of dark wizards, especially those whose magic was attuned through dedication, rather than practice."

"Well, there _was_ Evans..." Lucius pointed out, ribbing Snape for his refusal to heed the _shut up_ glare.

"She dedicated herself to _both_ Light and Dark. Mabon of '75 and Ostara of '76, respectively."

Lucius shook his head violently. "What? That's not even possible!"

Snape shrugged. "I doubt anyone told her that. I certainly didn't."

"You're telling me a fifteen-year-old mud – _muggleborn_ ," he corrected himself at the Potions Master's glare, "managed to achieve… Fuck. No wonder Bella didn't want us to kill her."

"Evans…" the boy said thoughtfully, obviously distracted from his former irritation over Narcissa's trick. "Any relation to Lily Evans?"

"The same," Snape answered shortly. "Yes, your mother. Yes, we knew her. And no, we're not talking about her now. What happened after you dedicated yourself to the Dark?"

The child frowned slightly. "Ms. Narcissa set a stone on the altar, and cut her hand over it, badly. She… she said something about re-affirming the bonds of family and begged the Powers not to let the Eternal House fade into obscurity. A… it wasn't a woman. More like a hole in the universe, shaped like a woman?"

"The Dark, or Darkness," Snape corrected him.

"Right. So. Um, the Dark appeared, and spoke. It called Ms. Narcissa the 'misbegotten flower of the Blacks' and told her she wasn't one of them anymore. She said she was, and the Dark said that the Covenant was broken."

Lucius groaned. He didn't know exactly what was going on, but a Covenant between the House of Black and the Dark Powers seemed like the sort of thing they _would_ do. Mad bloody barbarians, the lot of them.

Potter gave him a curious look, but he nodded for the boy to continue. "Well, Ms. Narcissa said something about re-foraging the Covenant – that she had brought his heir – not sure whose – the one who broke the Covenant, maybe?"

Snape poured himself another cup of coffee, staring at it as though it was some sort of lifeline. "Sirius. It would have been Sirius Black, who broke the Covenant. He is the only Black to whom you, Potter, could be considered an heir, and he is the only one among them who would have attempted to reject the Dark."

"Um… okay," the boy said hesitantly. "But wasn't he, you know, one of M. Voleur's?"

Snape snorted, presumably at the appellation, unless it was at the idea that _Sirius Black_ was actually a Death Eater. Lucius smirked at him. "Not hardly," the Potions Master drawled.

"Wait – but then… why's he in prison?"

"Clerical error?" Snape suggested innocently.

Lucius chuckled. In truth, it was a combination of pettiness, misinterpreted sarcasm (on Snape's part), bad press, ministry incompetence, and Black Family Politics. The remaining Dark supporters outside of Azkaban were not willing to risk their own freedom in an attempt to defend Black's innocence, given that he had been one of the most effective Light fighters, his mother and Narcissa considered him a Blood Traitor, and the remainder of the Light was thoroughly convinced that he had betrayed his best friend and his wife to their deaths at the Dark Lord's hands. Even if that particular action had resulted in the Dark Lord's disappearance, the Light held little love for a traitor.

" _Clerical error?_ "

"Just because he fought against the Dark Lord doesn't mean he didn't do anything deserving of gaol," the professor snapped at the child's challenging tone. "The myriad failings of Sirius Black are a topic for another time."

"What happened after Narcissa told the Dark that she had brought you to it?" Lucius asked, dragging the conversation back on-topic.

"Well, then she said the House could once again be devoted to the Dark, but it said no, there was no guarantee that it would be, and that the name of Black was lost, and the House fallen for 'ten years and more.' It – they? Said that for her sacrifice, _me_ , I guess, they would offer a single chance, but that eternity was no longer hers – or maybe _theirs_ – by right."

Lucius groaned. He could see where this was going.

"She thanked the Dark, and then the Dark said, 'One has sundered himself from us irreparably. One has done the same to you. These are beyond saving. Three are lost, but may yet be found within our realms: One to age, one to madness, one to a too-early death. You must choose, Narcissa Zaniah, choose and let your sacrifice buy the House of Black a second chance.'

"And Ms. Narcissa said, ' _Regulus_. Bring back the one lost to death.'

"And then the Dark said, 'So shall it be,' and vanished, and he, Regulus, appeared in the middle of the room, drowning, and I tried to give him mouth-to-mouth, and Ms. Narcissa did some sort of spell to make him cough up the water, and then Ms. Narcissa called Mopsy to take them to the emergency room, and then Draco and I went to bed, because we didn't know what else to do."

There was a long beat of stunned silence, wherein the men stared at the boy, and the boy spread marmalade on toast, before Lucius said, "And you, Severus? What was your role in all this?"

"The hospital called me in because a patient was under some combination of dark potions that defied their standard analytics. I'll leave it to Regulus and Narcissa to explain the circumstances of administration. I'm bound by my consultancy contract not to reveal the specific details of the cases I address."

Lucius _harrumphed_. "But we saw his body burn!"

"Do you truly think it beyond the reach of the Dark Powers to pull him forward in time, leaving a copy of his body in his place?"

"But time travel doesn't _work_ like that!"

"Don't talk to me about how time travel works," Snape said with a glare, momentarily looking at least as old as Lucius. "You know as well as I do that the universe is far more complex than even we wizards ever experience."

"Time travel exists?" Jamie piped up, breaking the uncomfortable silence developing between the two (former) Death Eaters.

"Well, Black certainly isn't a necromantic construct, so what do you think?" Snape snapped.

"Um…" the child bit his lip again, and Snape relented.

"Yes, time travel exists. Lucius, might I have a word with the child in private?"

Lucius shrugged elegantly. "Take any parlor or sitting room you like. I'm the one still eating," he pointed out. The child had long since finished his eggs and toast, and Snape's plate was entirely untouched.

The man poured himself yet another cup of coffee and stood abruptly. "Potter, come with me," he ordered, sweeping from the room.

Lucius nodded at the boy when he hesitated, and he scrambled to follow.

 _ **Hermione**_

Hermione did not know what to make of this strange Professor Snape. Master Snape?

Narcissa, she had decided, whilst recording her observations the previous night, was dangerous, under her pretty, perfect-lady mask. A consummate liar. That assessment only gained credence the more she thought on the ritual the lady had deftly maneuvered her into. Hermione had thought the Lady Malfoy was unguarded when it had just been her and the children, but now she suspected that she might have only seen the true Narcissa in the ritual room, when she was crying and begging her gods to save the Black family. She had no doubt, now, that the Lady had been honest when she told the Headmaster that she would destroy him without warning, with no indication of her movements until she was poised to strike, nor that she was fully capable of doing so, even if he was forewarned.

Lucius was more obviously a schemer, but the sort whose plans you could see coming a mile off. He clearly just counted on having enough power and leverage to roll right over anyone who stood in his way. He was straightforward, accustomed to getting his own way – a well-connected business-man with powerful allies and a lot of money behind him, unless she completely misread him. She imagined that he and Narcissa together were a formidable team – he the obvious one, the one that everyone thought was the true danger – and while he _was_ dangerous, he was the sort of danger you could plan for, and avoid, if you were careful. She could see so easily how it must work: while their enemies attempted to avoid Lucius, they forgot about Narcissa, who slipped around behind them, cut their knees out from under them, and slipped away before they even realized she'd been there at all.

Snape gave off an impression somewhat like Lucius, simply because he didn't try at all to be personable, like Narcissa. She vaguely recalled Draco mentioning that he was the best professor at Hogwarts, and the adult Malfoys had not disagreed with that assessment. She had expected him to be older, not in his early or mid-thirties. She decided, reflecting on the hints from the conversation they had just had that he gave off an air of _competence,_ half-hidden behind his mask of a curmudgeonly-ness. He clearly knew as much or more than Lucius about religion and the Powers and time travel, and hadn't he mentioned necromancy, too? Plus he had been called in as an expert opinion to help what had to be the best healers money could buy – she couldn't see Narcissa having taken her undead cousin to anyone less than the best.

She wasn't certain, but she thought he might be the most dangerous of the three.

He led her down a short hallway, to a lightly-decorated, well-lit sitting room, and gestured for her to have a seat.

"Who are you?" he asked, taking the chair next to hers. They had been arranged to encourage conversation, like something out of a magazine. She, in her new, Draco-approved khaki slacks and pastel button-up, almost looked like she belonged, but Professor Snape, in his very severe black-on-black attire, seemed completely out of place. "And _don't_ say Harry Potter."

She swallowed hard. She had _not_ been expecting _that_ question.

"How did you know?" she asked, completely forgetting to answer in her astonishment.

"Oh, _I_ don't know. It _couldn't_ have been your projecting, ' _But I'm not Harry Potter,'_ in your panic when we were discussing Narcissa dedicating you to the Dark, or the fact that you hesitated every time Lucius or I used your name, or the fact that there is a very distinctly _feminine_ feel to your mind. Take your pick, and answer my question."

"Hermione," she said, with a great sigh of relief to have found a wizard who might be able to help her, or who at least wouldn't think her mad for believing herself _not_ to be Harry Potter. "I'm Hermione Granger. My parents are Dan and Emma Granger. They're muggles. They live in Kent. I just woke up one morning in this wretched little cupboard under the stairs at the Dursley house in Surrey – I don't know what happened! It was like – like some sort of mind-swap, out of a bad sci-fi novel! I've just been muddling through for the last… ten days. Eleven counting today. It was Monday, the twenty-second."

The professor opened his mouth as though to say something, then closed it, as though he had thought better of it. He glared at her as though she was deliberately trying to make his life difficult, then said, "I am going to use a mind magic technique called Legilimency to examine your memories and verify your story."

" _Mens_ is mind… and _legili_ … is that the same root as _legible_? Mind-reading?"

"Nothing so straightforward as _reading_ , despite the name," the wizard sneered. "A product of the name of the discipline having been coined by those with no natural talent for the subject. _Erminévo_ captures it far better than _lego_ , the information reconstructed and translated from one mind to another, rather than _picked out_ … but I digress. Look into my eyes. It should be fairly painless, as you've obviously no training whatsoever."

"Um… okay?" she did as she was told, despite the half a dozen questions whirling through her mind about _legilimency_ and how it worked and where it came from and what it was really like and why it should hurt if one _had_ training, and if everyone had the ability, like some sort of latent ESP, and whether stories of ESP and telekinesis and the like were actually just wizards not being careful to hide themselves from everyone else, or kids like her, who hadn't realized they were magic because no one ever told them, and why that was, anyway.

Severus Snape's eyes were very dark, set deep in his sallow face, under heavy brows, which gave them a shadowed look, but despite that, as she looked into them, they seemed to almost glitter, fascinating and difficult to look away from.

After several long seconds, she began to wonder whether anything was happening. Before she could ask, she was thrown into a series of memories.

 _ **Severus**_

Severus sighed (to himself) as he led the child to one of the parlors Narcissa had decorated. This was exactly what this week needed.

First, Harry Potter, abused child, escaped from Petunia's custody, escaped from Dumbledore's custody, and managed to be taken in by the Malfoys. So far, so mundane, if not necessarily _expected_. 'Find Harry Potter, determine whether he was being abused by Petunia, and if not retrieve him from Malfoy Manor,' was a fairly tame assignment, coming from Dumbledore (never mind that he had had to translate it from the old man's usual obnoxiously naïve, self-justifying assumptions – that was standard fare).

He had _not_ predicted that in less than twelve hours, the child would be used by Narcissa Malfoy to bring back Regulus Black, simultaneously biasing him strongly toward dark magic. Dumbledore was bound to be insufferable, and not a little upset when he finally found out – which would _not_ be from Severus, if he could help it – not after he had made that crack about the worst the Malfoys could do being convincing the boy that the sun didn't shine out of the Old Goat's arsehole. Though Severus didn't consider it a major problem, Dumbledore would definitely consider the Boy Hero Chosen Savior Prophesied Light Defeater of the Dark Lord having been dedicated to the Dark to be a Bad Thing.

Then, as though the universe was not having enough fun at his expense, Regulus revealed that the Dark Lord had a Horcrux, thus explaining his failure to die properly back in '81, but even destroying said horcrux (with fiendfire, in a fucking _hospital room_ , because all Blacks were clearly fucking _insane_ ) did not cause the Dark Mark to entirely fade, suggesting that there had been more than one of the blasted things. After an hour convincing the hospital staff not to chuck himself and Narcissa out for pinging every single Dark Arts ward in the wing with the fucking fiendfire (which Narcissa coolly denied had existed at all, let alone that she had cast it, despite the _very obvious scorch mark_ on the floor and the smell of brimstone in the air), the three had spent another three hours holding what amounted to a council of war.

It had not taken too long for the trio to agree that they would unite in the goal of finishing off the Dark Lord. They all had their reasons:

Severus found that he simultaneously wished to smack Regulus 'round the head, and congratulate him for realizing that the Death Eaters – the war – had never been for him. The youngest Black had apparently suffered an attack of the so-called Black Madness in the hours before the Glastonbury battle, and had decided that instead of dying for his sworn lord, whom he now recognized as a madman himself, he would make the ridiculously Gryffindor decision to mount an attack on the horcrux, assigning an elf to destroy it before attempting to commit suicide via inferi under the effects of an hallucinogenic pain potion. Trust Regulus to go berserk in a way that made him act ridiculously noble and selfless. He really had always been too soft for his family, for the Death Eaters, despite his ambitions to please them. But there was no going back for him now, not after having been denounced as a traitor by the Dark Lord himself, twelve years prior.

Narcissa made a few veiled comments about _family_ and _flexibility_ , but Severus knew how much effort she had gone to in preparing Lucius' Imperius defense. Based on the official memory copies he had examined for Dumbledore, she had begun laying that back door _years_ before the Dark Lord's fall. She had polyjuiced herself as Bellatrix and _actually imperiused_ him to submit to the Dark Lord's orders. He had been able to show dozens of legitimate raids, revels, and even battles, where the memories were unmistakably tainted by the golden glow of the curse. The Marking Ceremony itself had been a master-work of memory-editing, every emotion on-point, including the unique sensation of an Imperius being broken by the pain of the Cruciatus to mask the transition between false and real – _imperiused_ and not, with a realistic patina of time-smudged details which would have convinced Severus if he hadn't known that Bellatrix was pants at the Imperius Curse, and that Lucius had been a willing recruit long before the age at which he was _imperiused_. One simply did not invest so heavily in contingency plans if one wholeheartedly supported one's cause.

As a double agent who, by that time, had wanted nothing more than to see _both_ of his masters in hell for the fact that their combined stupidity (even more-so than his own) had resulted in the death of his best friend, Severus had led the Old Goat to believe that the memories were genuine. Lying with the truth, through omission and the careful juxtaposition of unrelated facts to imply a dishonest conclusion had always been somewhat of a specialty of his, and Dumbledore had nothing on Voldemort when it came to using legilimency to detect deception.

Even now, he considered that he owed neither of them any true allegiance: the Dark Lord had lost his mind. He was no longer the man to whom Severus had sworn his loyalty, whom he had thought would make the world a better place for dark wizards like himself. The Headmaster had failed him, and entrapped him in his moment of greatest weakness, thinking to make him a pawn in his game, to be passed between the two players.

Severus had not been idle in the last ten years, or entirely overwhelmed by Dumbledore's demands, despite the Old Goat's efforts, and he had continued his studies of Dark Arts and mind magic, alongside the potions research that was expected of him as a Master. He was confident that he had developed sufficient independence to become a power in his own right, so long as the Dark Lord did not return and re-enforce the bond of the Mark. Plus, if and when the Dark Lord truly died, the vow that tied him to Dumbledore would be fulfilled, and he would be free of them both.

The conclusion that they would endeavor to see the Dark Lord gone had taken nearly no time at all to reach. The majority of the three hours had been spent arguing over who else ought to be brought in on the plan and whether Regulus ought to immediately come forward as Lord Black. They had tentatively decided to wait, on both counts. They needed more time to consider who might be useful allies, rather than security weaknesses, when it came to hunting down the Dark Lord, his horcruxes, and any other methods he might have used to stay his mortality.

Learning as much as they could about the Dark Lord, in the meanwhile, seemed the most reasonable first step. There were very few wizards or witches around anymore who had known him closely before his rise to power. Narcissa had decided that Alethea Prince, Lucius' aunt and Severus' maternal grandmother, was the most likely to hold clues to who the Dark Lord might have been before he met Abraxas Malfoy in the 1940s. She would take care of questioning the old woman, while Severus probed Dumbledore for any possible information he had squirrelled away over the years.

Regulus, they had decided, would take up residency in one of the unused Black properties, which both of the others assured Severus would recognize him without any need for public acknowledgement of his return. He would go to the goblins to have his identity verified, then begin to sort out the priorities he would need to deal with before coming forward and announcing himself to the Wizengamot, and catch up on the history he had missed over the course of the past twelve years. That should, the others thought, be quite sufficient to keep the time-traveler busy while they gathered more information. He wanted to see to freeing Sirius first thing – blood traitor he might be, but he had never been disowned, which meant they had a duty to each other, and the Gryffindor Black's falling out with the family had stemmed from his disagreements with a generation now long dead or at the very least quite mad.

Much to Severus' irritation, Regulus did not feel that Sirius deserved to languish any longer in Azkaban. Apparently the younger wizard had had an epiphany on the verge of death – a realization that he had never done anything of worth in his life, except die in an attempt to destroy the horcrux, and he had wished he could tell Sirius about it. Snape had sneered at him for his sentiment, but wisely kept his mouth shut. (It had only been a few hours ago, for Regulus, he supposed.)

Fortunately, Narcissa agreed with Severus that the best way to go about their silent revolt was to take care of the Dark Lord _first_ , thus freeing his followers of any remaining obligations, and eliminating the potential future threat before allowing Regulus to reveal himself. They were wagering that he and Narcissa could come up with enough leads on that project before school resumed to prevent the newly-Gryffindorish Regulus from running off and doing something supremely stupid, like… he cast about for something suitably idiotic… like being hunted down and _actually_ killed by Alastor Moody or that bastard Crouch.

And now, on top of all of that, it turned out that Harry Potter wasn't even really Harry Potter.

Fuck. Had he really just allowed himself to be engaged in conversation about the etymology of the term _legilimens_? With a future student of all people?

Gods and Powers, he needed sleep.

He wasn't nearly so prone to tangential verbal wandering when he'd gotten at least a few hours' rest. Or mental wandering, if it came to that.

"Um… okay," the child said hesitantly, looking into his eyes with only the slightest apprehension.

Well, then. To business.

It was the work of moments to skim through the child's recent memories. She was practically pushing them at him, in her desperation to prove her story. Then he delved into her memory-structure, a strangely netlike construction, made of variously interconnected memory-nodes, each connected to dozens if not hundreds of other, associated memories, bursts of light denoting thoughts travelling between them, often two or three at once, occasionally floating free to join what seemed to be an endless sea of questions. It was an impressively dense and active field for a child of eleven. The better part of it all seemed to be referential knowledge, too, which was even more unusual. But there was no sign of any tampering with any of it, aside from a few very old obliviations, most likely related to her earliest bouts of accidental magic.

Bafflingly enough, it was exactly as she had said: she was a muggleborn witch who went to bed one night in her proper body, and woke up the next morning in Harry Potter's. There was no sign of possession, where a foreign presence overlay the host-mind. There was no sign of external magical interference at all. With no clue as to how it had happened, he had no idea whatsoever how to reverse it. He supposed he would have to go visit the Grangers and see if the real Harry Potter was with them, though he had no idea what to do about it if he was. Or worse, if he _wasn't_.

He withdrew easily from her mind, careful not to disturb the connections between memories, and trying not to be bombarded by the wealth of questions whirling around her conscious thoughts. He was exhausted just _thinking_ of attempting to answer them.

He stared at her a moment longer, after he had fully disengaged, recalling another muggleborn witch, just as brilliant, watching him from behind those same green eyes, decades ago. But _this_ girl was not Lily, and she was trapped in the body of a scrawny, underfed version of James Potter. She was even using the same _name_ as the obnoxious pureblood once had – Jamie.

He knew why she had chosen it – it was right there on the edge of her consciousness at all times: _I'm a_ _girl_ _!_ And the diminutive was somewhat androgynous, at least in the muggle world. More-so than Harry, at any rate.

"This year is going to be a nightmare, I can already tell," he said aloud, in an exceedingly dry tone of exasperation.

"So you believe me?"

"Of course I believe you: no one could fake that level of false memory development." He had spot-checked all through her experiential knowledge, and there were clear, genuine memories from as early as age three.

"Do you know how to fix it?"

"There was no clue as to how the transfer – if that is what it was – occurred. Perhaps I shall be able to formulate a theory after I track down the _real_ Harry Potter."

Then a thought occurred to him. He really _must_ be tired if he was allowing this child's assumptions to potentially mislead him, away from the simplest explanation. He pulled his wand and performed a series of Healers' diagnostic charms on her.

"Erm… what was that?" she asked nervously.

"Just checking that your own body was not somehow altered to take on Potter's appearance, and the two of you simply switched places." If he had been tasked with disappearing Harry Potter, that might have been how he would do it. Long-term human transfiguration was difficult, but nowhere near as problematic as moving an entire consciousness and memory-structure, intact, from one body to another. Unfortunately, he was positive that the readings he was getting, of growth-stunting due to malnutrition and too little caloric input over a period of _years_ was not consistent with the life he had seen in her memories, where she had been a perfectly healthy girl. There were other, more blatant signs as well: "Ever break an arm?" he drawled.

"No, never – I've never broken _any_ bones!"

"I thought not." Powers below, what was he going to tell _Dumbledore_?

Nothing, he decided almost instantly. The less the old man knew about this, the better.

"So…"

"So your mind definitely has been moved to Potter's body. The next logical step is…" he trailed off, already thinking of the logistical issues of trying to explain the situation to the Grangers and obtain their permission to _legilimize_ the child they thought was their daughter – if they hadn't already figured out that something was going on.

"To see whether his mind is in my body?" the girl… boy? Girl, he decided – it was easier if he thought of her the way she thought of herself. _She_ finished his thought excitedly.

"It may be best to wait until the two of you are at Hogwarts," he mused. "Certainly easier than walking up to a pair of dentists and suggesting that they let an unknown wizard 'read' their daughter's mind…"

The child frowned thoughtfully. "No, I don't suppose mum _would_ take that well. You might be able to pass it off as some sort of aptitude test or the like. It's not as though they'd _know_ , would they?"

Severus sighed. "Keep thinking like that, and we'll make a Slytherin out of you yet."

She beamed at him – a thoroughly disconcerting combination of James Potter and Lily Evans – and started babbling about all Draco had told her about Slytherin and how it sounded like the best house, and wondering where he thought she truly belonged, at the moment, if not there.

He cut her off. "I shall consider the best means of determining whether Potter is occupying your body. In the meanwhile, you shall continue to act the part of Harry Potter."

"What? Of course I will – I mean, what else can I do?" She didn't sound too excited about that. Severus silently thanked the powers that it was a muggleborn who had managed to get tangled up in this latest Potter's life (even before he had arrived at Hogwarts, he was causing problems for Severus – bugger and blast!), rather than some obnoxious pureblood who would be all too pleased to find themselves in the place of the most famous child in Magical Britain. "But you'll tell me, won't you, sir? If you find anything out?"

"I shall. Though I warn you, Miss Granger, you must not get your hopes up. Even if Potter _is_ occupying your body, I have no idea how to reverse the condition, and if he is _not_ , the problem is even more complex."

The child wilted slightly. "Right, yes – of course. I suppose it was too much to hope for that it would be _easy_ to fix this…"

Severus had never been one to sugar-coat anything, especially for the students. He found they trusted him more for his refusal to pander to their supposed juvenile sensitivities. "Indeed," he confirmed.

"Are there, I don't know… _experts_ , on this sort of thing? Not that I don't trust you, of course, it's just…"

He glared at her, mostly for the sake of form. Asking about the possibility of a second opinion had, if anything, actually raised his own opinion of her, he noted with faint surprise. "John McKinnon, Alison Taggart, and Claire O'Rourke are the top three mind-magic researchers in Magical Britain. McKinnon is a mind healer. His background is in correcting abnormal behavior and psychology, though he mostly trains new mind healers anymore. Taggart is an Unspeakable. Her work focuses on understanding the interaction between the mind and the body, specifically in memory formation. She would likely have some ideas, but she may be more concerned with observing the phenomenon than reversing it. Asking the Unspeakables for help more often than not results in one becoming a lab-rat until they lose interest." That was the main reason he had never sought their assistance in neutralizing what remained of the Dark Mark. "O'Rourke is on retainer with Gringott's at the moment. She specializes in breaking mind-based curses and hexes, obliviation, memory modification, et cetera."

"And you, sir?"

"I believe I would be ranked fifth or sixth for knowledge and experience with a broad range of practical applications of the discipline, after the Head Obliviator and the Head Unspeakable. _My_ specialties are Potions, Dark Arts, and Mind Magic, and the intersections between them. I do consulting work with St Mungo's when they have an emergency requiring a legilimens or Potions Master with dark arts expertise."

"So if you can't find a way to fix it…"

"Then I will introduce you to O'Rourke next time she is in the country, and if the two of us can think of nothing to try, I will consult with Taggart and McKinnon – ideally without involving your name or you personally, though that may be impossible, and quite frankly, it would be preferable if it didn't come to that."

The girl's spine straightened with resolve, and she nodded, obviously relieved that he would not simply write off her problem. "I suppose you'd best call me 'Potter,' then, sir," she said. "For the sake of appearances."

Her resigned determination to weather the trial before her (honestly, the very fact that she treated it like a trial to be overcome, rather than a grand adventure, despite the fact that she had very clearly been thinking that it was all like something out of a storybook) earned her a small smile. "If it's any consolation, I believe you shall make a better Harry Potter than anyone brought up by the Dursleys."

She looked confused. "But all I've done is what _anyone_ would have done."

Was she? Yes, she was serious. Oh, to be young again… but then again, Severus rather doubted that he'd ever been quite _that_ naïve. "Someday you will understand why I find that statement so amusing," he informed her drily. "Come now, Potter. If anyone asks, I viewed your memory of the ritual in the hopes of gaining more insight into Regulus' appearance, and then you pelted me with questions about Hogwarts for the remainder of the time," he informed the child, dispelling the security spells he'd raised automatically, as a force of habit, and leading her toward the door again.

"But – I still _have_ ever so many questions about Hogwarts!" she protested, following him back down the corridor toward the 'Small' Dining Room. "Are we expected to have read all the books before we get there? Do most professors give exams on each chapter, or just at the end of term? Do most students already know much magic when they arrive? Are they all from magic families? I haven't learnt anything, yet – I'm going to be so far behind!"

Severus groaned as they re-entered the dining room to find it empty. "You will not be any further behind than any muggleborn student. If you read all of the textbooks ahead of time, you will be well ahead of many of the dunderheads who just _finished_ their first year, and I cannot speak for the other professors, but you would do well to treat every Potions lesson as though it were an exam. Go wake Draco and bother him, if you'd like to see how much magic the best tutors money can buy will teach a child before Hogwarts. I have far more important things to do with my time than to discuss the demographics of the incoming class and your myriad insecurities." Like a Potter to track down, a report to formulate for Dumbledore, and a rather involved conversation with the old man regarding his most-closely-held secrets. And sleep. Hopefully not in that order. Sleep should _definitely_ come before any dealings with the old goat.

The child seemed to take his meaning, because she looked around to make sure the coast was clear, then said quietly, "Seventeen Willow Circle, in East Farleigh, Maidstone, Kent."

He nodded sharply, only once, and took his leave without bothering with the proprieties. He had already pieced the address together from the girl's memories, but her confirmation was not unwelcome.

He was getting far too old for this, he thought, apparating to the Ministry and their Map Room to track down the coordinates for East Farleigh. The only bright spots he could find in this mess were that Regulus was no longer dead, and at least there wasn't any time-travel involved.

Yet.

 _ **Narcissa**_

It was far too early when Narcissa woke, or rather, it was rather later than she normally rose, but less than three hours after she had gone to bed, and thus seemed far too early.

Her husband was lounging in a chair by the fire as though he had been there for hours, but she suspected it was his entry which had disturbed her. She always had been a light sleeper.

"Good morning, Lucius," she greeted him warily. It wasn't often that he ventured into her suite. He much preferred his own bed on the rare occasion they indulged in marital congress, and they saw quite enough of each other around the rest of the house.

She felt privacy spells snap into place before he responded, so it was not so very much of a surprise when the first words out of his mouth were, "Regulus? You brought Regulus Black back from the dead?"

She struggled free of the bed and donned a bath-robe, simply because it was impossible to defend oneself sufficiently when one was lying in bed completely nude, and Lucius' tone was nothing if not confrontational. "I did. Or rather, the Powers did." She smiled radiantly. She knew it was radiant, because it was an expression she had practiced, at length, but it was also genuine, because despite the horrid news Regulus had borne, of the Dark Lord's mechanism for remaining alive, he had also brought with him, as the Powers had promised, an opportunity for the House of Black to be revived.

Lucius scowled. "You sacrificed _Harry Potter's_ choice of dedication in order to do it."

An elegant shrug. "The Covenant between the House of Black and the Dark Powers was sealed with the dedication of every Black to the Dark, for eternity. Sirius broke it, deliberately. I sacrificed the dedication of his Heir, his godson, in the hopes of reforaging it. They graciously decided to give us a chance, though not a guarantee."

" _Them_ , Cissa! _Them_! You are no longer a Black! The fate of that family is no longer your concern!"

"I will _always_ be a Black, Lucius!" she hissed at him. "Always! You knew that when you married me!"

"You are a _Malfoy_ now, Narcissa! The affairs of _our_ House and _our_ family must come first!"

"You think it does _not_ benefit the House of Malfoy to have a strong House of Black by its side?" she sneered.

Lucius sneered back, refusing to acknowledge that she had a point, and changing the subject. "Was this your plan all along, then? Use the child to revive your house? Nothing more?"

"Don't be absurd, Lucius. Jamie will be of great use politically as well, I am sure. The blow to Dumbledore alone would be worth taking him in. The child will go just as far dedicated to the dark as he would kept in ignorance of his heritage."

"You don't think you ought to have _discussed_ this with me?"

"What was there to discuss, husband? The part where we decided to take in the child? You were more than pleased to suggest it yourself. The part where I dedicated him to the Dark? Irrelevant. The part where I chose Regulus? It wasn't as though I exactly had the opportunity to send you a bloody owl with the Dark standing there telling me to choose!"

"How about the part where you decided to attempt to revive your thrice-cursed _Covenant_ without even the slightest hint of your plans?!"

Narcissa sniffed. " _You_ are not a Black. You wouldn't understand."

"No more is Draco, nor Jamie! You have no business involving them in your Black Arts chicanery!"

 _This_ argument? _Again_? " _Chicanery_?! Draco is my son every bit as much as he is yours, Malfoy! If he chooses to abandon the Old Ways when he is fifteen, then I shall let him, but until then, you agreed that he would be given every opportunity to experience the fullness of the wonder that is magic!"

"Summoning the ever-loving _Darkness_ isn't exactly your standard-fare holiday ritual, _Narcissa_!" he scowled at her, practically baring his teeth.

"Witnessing the substantiation of the _Presence_ is a _blessing_ , Malfoy! A _blessing_ I had never hoped to have the chance to see in my lifetime! Draco should count himself _lucky_ to have had the opportunity!"

" _You_ should count _your_ self lucky that the thrice-cursed Powers didn't demand his life in exchange!"

The lady of the house scoffed. "I would never agree to such an exchange! I love our son! He is my life!"

"And if they had demanded yours? It was reckless, Cissa! Reckless!" He sounded as though he actually cared, though perhaps more for the fact that she had not given the matter long thought than that she might have endangered herself.

"Such an opportunity is offered once in the lifetime of a House, Lucius! I could not but try to take it," she rebutted him, but she was shaken. She honestly did not know if she would have agreed to exchange her life for Regulus'. As a scion of Black, she properly ought to say so, as he had a better chance by far to revive the house, and she had already done her duty, marrying Malfoy and bearing his son, so doing so would not dishonor her, but she knew herself to be selfish, and did not want to die. It was a moot point, in any case. "I knew and they knew what I was offering. My life was never on the table."

"I cannot believe you… you _dedicated_ Harry Potter to the Dark," Lucius shook his head slowly. He was a dark wizard through practice, not dedication, and as such never had understood what it was to trust in the Powers to affect one's life. "Potter would have _crucified_ you. Charlus _or_ James."

Narcissa smirked. Lucius' temper was quick to flare, and equally quick to die. It appeared he had said his piece, for the moment. " _Dorea_ was raised as much a Black as I, though. And Lily Evans would not have objected."

She had known Lily Evans well, once upon a time. The little minx had manipulated her younger self into a business relationship, of sorts, long before they found themselves on opposite sides of an all-out war. She blamed Evans and her former sister, Andromeda, equally, for her own tolerance toward the presence of certain (politically and economically useful) mudbloods within their society. She respected power, as every Black did, and she could not deny that the younger witch had been a force to be reckoned with, from her very first year in Magical Britain. Unlike most of her kind, Evans had never cared much for the political Light, and from hints Severus had dropped over the years, she had never bought in to the distinction between Light and Dark magic.

Her husband snorted. "Severus claims that Evans was dedicated to _both_ the Dark _and_ the Light. Absurd!"

The witch felt her eyes widen involuntarily. "It's not..." It would, in fact, explain much more than it didn't about the role Evans had played in the war. "Merlin was dedicated to Magic as a whole, and only rejected the Dark later in life, and Morgana was initially dedicated to the Light, before embracing the Dark as well." The Malfoy education on certain matters of deep magic was terribly flawed. Not for the first time, Narcissa reminded herself that her husband's ignorance of these things was not his fault, and that she was teaching their son better.

"You did _not_ just compare that mudblood to Morgana herself," Lucius said coldly.

"I could compare her to the Morrigan, and it would be accurate," she noted, raising a challenging eyebrow at him. The red-headed Healer had wrought more havoc on the Death Eaters than any other of Dumbledore's pawns. But she would concede the point that there _were_ less mythological accounts. "The latest example of dual dedication I can think of is one of the Boneses, well before the Statute was formalized. They used to dedicate all of their children to both poles on their thirteenth birthday."

"Why did they stop?" Her husband sounded skeptical.

"Because without constant practice of both Black and White Arts to maintain balance, they tended to fall more toward one pole or the other by default, and with the institution of the Statute, everyday use of High Ritual fell out of favor as it attracted too much attention. There was no point, really."

Lucius harrumphed, and changed the subject again. "What are you going to tell Draco about Regulus? From what Potter told Severus and myself, he _will_ have questions."

 _Blast it all,_ Narcissa swore silently. How to deal with Lucius and how much to tell him had been discussed extensively over the course of their impromptu war council the night prior. What to do about the boys' knowledge of Regulus' return hadn't come up in their preoccupation with the Dark Lord's horcrux(es), the argument about Sirius, and the question of whether Regulus should claim his position as Paterfamilias Black.

She supposed there was nothing to be done now that the boys did know. They would have to be sworn to secrecy, which might be easier said than done, if they understood what had happened in the Ritual Room: Potter could easily be afraid and untrusting of her, now. Then again, Healers Patil, Nockley, and Zleity, plus that welcome witch and whomever else had been in Receiving, were already aware of the existence of someone who looked an awfully lot like a Black, brought in to the hospital by herself, and the condition he had been in at that point. The only saving grace of Walburga's descent into madness was that she was highly unlikely to interact with any potential rumormongers – no one else was likely to believe that her cousin had escaped death, and still looked like his seventeen-year-old self. But the boys knew, and if they told anyone, it would be that much easier for the Dark Lord's few remaining free and faithful followers to make the connection before they were ready, or worse, the remaining Light zealots who were mad enough to believe it.

That would be… problematic.

The proper order of things, so far as the three Slytherins had managed to hash out the night before, would be to track down and destroy the remaining horcruxes, preventing the Dark Lord's eventual return, _then_ to reveal Regulus' existence and have him re-take the Black Seat in the Wizengamot and the role of Paterfamilias, and _then_ to procure a trial for Sirius, despite the fact that the revival of the House was her priority, and saving Sirius was apparently Regulus'.

Neither the boys nor Lucius could be trusted with the knowledge of the horcrux problem, at least for the moment. For one thing, the boys were only eleven, and hardly needed to know that sort of thing anyway, and for another, if the secret of Regulus' return was important (mostly for his safety), the secret of the horcruxes was paramount. Most of the Death Eaters who had escaped capture in the direct aftermath of the war were mad dogs. There was no telling what they would do if they discovered that the Dark Lord had left pieces of his soul lying around, just waiting to be recovered and used to resuscitate him. Their only chance for a decently successful life, after all, was if he returned. At the moment, they were living on the fringes of society, under assumed names, or else had fled to non-extradition countries to avoid their pasts. They hated those like Lucius and his cronies, who had given themselves up and disavowed their actions – mostly, Narcissa thought, out of jealousy that they had not been able to do the same.

She was not a little proud that her scheme to save her husband's neck had, in the end, put nearly every one of the Allied Dark Houses into the Malfoys' debt. It gave her an incredible amount of political pull when she chose to reach for those bonds of obligation. If they did this right, it would be those ties that saw Regulus accepted to the Wizengamot without a fight, and Sirius released with only a carefully controlled uproar.

But in the meanwhile, they would have to control the flow of information very, very carefully.

"The truth, I suppose," she said, suddenly realizing that she had not yet addressed Lucius' question. "Did you expect me to Obliviate my own son?"

"Of course not," the boy's father said smoothly, though the slight hesitation before he did so gave away the lie. He must have thought she was considering it during her own long pause. "But his mastery of Occlumency does… leave something to be desired."

"And it is far too late to correct that now," she agreed. Draco, most unfortunately, did not have the temperament for Occlumency. He, like Lucius, would have to mature a fair bit before he could even hope to come close to mastering the discipline. She herself was not well-suited to the practice either, but she had learned it anyway, thanks to certain dubious methods she was grateful she did not have enough skill as a legilimens to employ. Even if she were as good a legilimens as Arcturus, she was not certain she could have brought herself to effectively torture her child into building mental defenses. Severus could have done it, but he could not abide children, and she had honestly feared that he might cave to the temptation to alter Draco's personality if he was forced into prolonged contact with the boy when he was younger. He used to be _even more_ energetic and enthusiastic. "And in any case," she continued coolly, "Jamie certainly hasn't had an opportunity to learn either. Still, I hardly expect they will be legilimized at Hogwarts."

Lucius raised an eyebrow and passed her the Prophet from the table beside his chair.

One glance at the headline, and she revised her statement. Dumbledore would almost certainly legilimize both boys, out of spite, if nothing else. "I'll discuss it with Severus and see if there's a way to deal with it without obliviating them."

Her husband finally cracked a smile at the expression of irritation she put on as she skimmed the article. "You may want to wait a few days before that discussion," he smirked. "He was in a rather horrid mood this morning."

 _ **Draco**_

Draco woke, much earlier than usual, he noted, looking at the clock across the room. He wondered why. Then there was another rather tentative knock at his door.

He stumbled to open it, wondering who could possibly want to talk to him at this hour. It wasn't cleaning day, so it wouldn't be an elf, and mother was a much firmer knocker than whoever was still tapping at the heavy wood. She wouldn't have waited this long before barging in, either.

"'m up! I'm _coming_ ," he grumbled, pulling a robe over his greenest pajamas.

Father never visited his room at all. Much as he hated to admit it, he didn't see much of his idol outside of the occasional lesson on being the Heir of Malfoy. Maybe he was awake early enough to catch his father at breakfast. That thought perked him up almost as much as opening the door to see Jamie Potter's far-too-awake face. The events of the day before came back to him in a rush.

"Morning," he said intelligently.

Jamie entered without being bid, a brief expression of guilt flashing across his face. "Were you still sleeping? It's after seven!"

"Erm… yes? It's not even eight yet!"

"I've been up for _ages_ ," the other boy informed him. "I've already had breakfast, and talked to your father and Professor Snape. Your description didn't do him justice. Bit terrifying, that one. It sounds like your cousin, Regulus? Is recovering, by the way."

"Recovering from… being dead?"

"I gather he was only _mostly_ dead," Jamie said with a sort of expectant pause, then sighed. "Sorry, muggle joke. Remind me to make you read the Princess Bride. _Anyway_ , we need to talk!" he added sternly.

"About what?"

"About what happened last night!" Not only was there expectation, now, but also a hint of accusation.

"What did happen?"

"You _tricked_ me – you and your mum!"

"No we didn't!" Draco had no idea what the mad Potter was talking about.

"Professor Snape said you did, and your father didn't disagree. What do you have to say for yourself?!" Jamie glared.

"What the bloody hell am I supposed to have done?" he yelped.

The other boy continued to glare, hands now on his hips. "You and your mum tricked me into dedicating myself to the Dark! I thought I was just being polite! But no! Something happened! It did something to my magic! Apparently I'm now a Dark Wizard! That's the whole reason Regulus got brought back – your mum sacrificed _my choice_ of becoming a Dark Wizard to bring him back!" Jamie was breathing rather heavily by the end of his tirade, and pacing around the room.

Draco sat on the bed, shocked. "Really? I didn't know you could _do_ that." Apparently ritual magic was a little more interesting than he had thought.

"That's all you have to say for yourself?! No explanation, just 'really?'?!"

The accusatory tone was starting to wear a bit, especially after being woken up so bloody early, just to be yelled at. He knew this was Harry Potter, but honestly, _who did he think he was_? He glared back. "I don't really think that I owe you an explanation, seeing as you've clearly got a better idea of what in the nine hells is going on!" he snapped, and headed for the door.

Jamie followed him out into the corridor. "Where are you going?! I'm not done with you!"

"Well, I'm done with you! Who the hell barges into someone else's room, wakes them up, and then yells at them before they've even had breakfast? It's the sort of thing I'd expect from a _mudblood_ , not the Heir of the Noble and Ancient House of Potter!" _There, that should shut_ him _up_ , Draco thought triumphantly.

It didn't, though. Apparently Potter was too ignorant of proper culture to even realize when his behavior had just been corrected – or at least an attempt made. "What the blooming flip is a mudblood?!" he scowled. "Draco? Draco!" he shouted, as Draco ignored him, stalking away toward the dining room and breakfast. Apparently, though, he decided not to instigate an undignified chase through the corridors, as the next thing the Malfoy heir heard was the slamming of a heavy door behind him.

 _Good riddance!_


	43. Redemption1: Hit the Ground Running

Regulus woke up. This in itself was somewhat surprising to the seventeen-year-old wizard. The last thing he remembered (distantly, through the familiar haze of a calming draught) was a lake full of inferi rising up to drown him, and welcoming his death, after drinking… what was that stuff?

"Dolor inimica," a very dry voice said conveniently. "And enough muggle hallucinogens to give a giant a bad trip."

"And you just happened to have the antidote on hand?" a woman asked suspiciously.

"A basic Sufeline Antidote suffices once the muggle toxins are filtered out of the bloodstream," the dry, male voice admitted. "Though the pain is significantly decreased with the administration of sweet water alone."

There was a blessedly familiar brush of legilimency against his Occlumency shields. Only one person used that particular method of verifying others' identity, so lightly that it might have been entirely unconscious on his part. "Severus?" he forced his eyes open to see a much older, supremely dour-looking potions expert glaring down at him.

"Regulus!" A regal blonde seized his hand tightly, falling from her chair to kneel beside him, openly crying as Black ladies never did.

"Cissy? Wha'appened? Am I at St Mungo's?"

"You are," Severus answered. "And now that you are conscious, I shall go make my report to Healer Patil. Narcissa, I trust you will catch your cousin up on the relevant history?"

"History?" he rasped. "What's happened?"

Cissy regained control of herself, and nodded blotting at her eyes with a corner of his sheet as Severus slipped out of the room. "Regulus… Reggie… it's 1991. You've been missing – presumed dead – for twelve years."

"What? No, I haven't – I can't have been! It's only…" He trailed off as he realized that despite her well-preserved appearance, there were lines on her face that had not been there the week before, and his favorite cousin's eyes now held far more experience than any nineteen-year-old's could hold (even one raised in the House of Black). Like Severus, Cissy had undoubtedly aged, apparently overnight.

"Bellatrix told us you'd turned traitor and been executed for your crimes," she clarified. "The Dark Lord fell in 1981. Bellatrix and Sirius are both in Azkaban. Uncle Arcturus passed beyond the Veil last spring, so Auntie Walburga has been Acting Head of House."

"What? How did the Dark Lord _fall_? Is he dead?" Regulus scrabbled at his blankets to look at his left arm. The Mark was faded, but still present. He must not have died properly – had Kreacher not destroyed the horcrux before this 'fall'? "And why's Sirius in Azkaban?" he added, as the rest of his cousin's words registered.

"No one knows what happened to the Dark Lord. He went to attack the Potters on Samhain in '81 and disappeared."

"And Sirius?"

"He – he was a Death Eater, or so they say. He betrayed the Potters, at the end of the war."

Regulus snorted. Like that could ever have happened. But he'd get to the bottom of that later. "And you? Lucius?"

"Imperiused, the whole time," Narcissa lied smoothly, raising a challenging eyebrow at him.

"Sooo…"

"I am loyal to the Family, as ever. As for politics, well… without the Dark Lord calling on the Marks, Lucius has been free to make his own way."

The seventeen-year-old narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Can I trust you?"

Narcissa chuckled. "Can you _not_?"

Regulus grinned. "Point." It wasn't as though he had a lot of other options. "Am I going to be crucified for having the Mark? I _was_ underage when I got it, after all, and there's no proof of anything else I did," he raised an eyebrow suggestively: he had, in fact, been of age, though there was no way anyone could prove it, if Cissy backed his story.

She shrugged. "I'll take care of it. There's bound to be some sort of trial, but…"

"In light of the extenuating circumstances of my appearance here in… did you say 1991? Dark Powers. Okay. So in light of that, and the fact they think I'm dead… no, actually, maybe we'd better keep it that way for a while," he said, as a thought occurred to him mid-Wizengamot-mockery. The Dark Lord wasn't dead – but he had to know that Regulus had turned against him – isn't that what Severus had said? So his safest bet, until he could finish what he started in that cave might actually be _staying dead_ himself. Officially.

His (now much) older cousin gave him a _look_ suggesting he'd lost the plot.

"If we need it, I might have a free pass, at least from the Light. I'll explain," he elaborated, with an eye-roll and a cough, fumbling for the water pitcher on the bedside table. Narcissa poured and helped him sip at it. "But first… _Kreacher!_ "

The elderly elf appeared with a crack. "Master Regulus is calling Kreacher? But Master Regulus is dead, and Kreacher is failing him these long years…"

"I'm not dead!" Regulus protested, as vehemently as he could, given his exhaustion. "Kreacher! How long has it been since I ordered you from that cave?"

The elf, in typical elven fashion, went from doubtful to elated to sorrowful within the space of a few breaths as the humans looked on in various states of shock. "Master Regulus is alive? Kreacher does not understand. Kreacher is feeling Master's magic die twelve years, three months and fifteen days ago. And now Master is back? Master Regulus! Mistress will be so pleased! But Kreacher is failing Master Regulus in his task. Kreacher must be punished, Master." The elf bowed low, his nose nearly scraping the floor.

Regulus groaned. That explained why the Dark Lord hadn't died properly, then. And apparently all his almost being drowned by a lake full of dead people was for _nothing_. "Kreacher, I release you from your task. You do not need to punish yourself as long as you tried everything you could. Bring –" he broke off with a cough, and gratefully accepted a bit more water from Narcissa. "Bring the locket to me. And _don't_ tell my mother I'm alive."

"Yes, Master Regulus!" The elf vanished and reappeared almost instantly, with a large golden locket in hand. "Master Regulus' Locket, sir!"

"Thank you, Kreacher. You may return to Grimmauld Place. Do not tell my mother I am alive. If she asks you where you have been, or in any other way attempts to elicit information on your whereabouts whilst you have been attending to me, you are to _lie_ , and give no indication of my return, understood?"

"Yes, sir, Master Regulus, sir!" the elf beamed. "Kreacher is being pleased to have Master Regulus returned, sir!" And then he vanished, yet again.

Narcissa looked from the place he had so recently stood, to Regulus' face, and then to the locket, with its bright, emerald-encrusted 'S'. "Regulus, what is that?" she asked, reaching curiously for the dark magic it radiated faintly.

"This," he answered grimly, with a moue of distaste, "is a horcrux. _The Dark Lord's_ horcrux."

" _Fuck_."

Neither Regulus nor Narcissa were the sort to be regularly inclined to swearing, but Regulus would be willing to bet that his cousin concurred every bit as much as he did with Severus' pronouncement upon his impeccably-timed return. "Indeed."


	44. Back in Black Summary

**Back in Black**

This AU diverges from Mary Potter on 31 July 1994. Hermione is at the Department of Mysteries for a series of meetings regarding whether she will be allowed to keep the Time Turner after drastically overusing it all through the 1993/1994 school year, when she is mistaken for an intern or junior research assistant of some sort, and involved in a test of an artefact which sends her to 31 July 1976, the summer after the Marauders' fifth year. Due to her excessive time turning, Hermione is chronologically sixteen by this point as well (of course), and will (of course) end up attending the Marauders' sixth and seventh years with them. Before she gets that far, however, she runs into Sirius Black, and makes the (poorly considered) choice to attempt to get close to Bellatrix (the only researcher she knows of who is anywhere near a successful working theory of time travel) in order to see if she can get any hints about how to return to her own time period. Bellatrix (of course) immediately figures out that she is a time traveler or 'wandering star' and insists on adopting Hermione out of a combination of curiosity (about time travel and the future) and superstition (which precludes her just torturing the information out of her). By the end of the first chapter, Hermione is officially Maia Ankaa, daughter of Bellatrix Black, and kicking herself for not just going to the Potters' when Sirius initially offered to take her there.

I'm not entirely certain where this story is going, though I suspect that it may have a happier ending for everyone, because one of the first things Hermione (accidentally) does to change the timeline is reveal Tom's surname in front of Bellatrix, which is bound to lead to their having a Serious Talk about what he actually wants out of his Dark Revolution (which is not, actually, the ridiculously excessive war Bella has been escalating on his behalf). Yes. The war subsides into a chronic state of organized crime vs. the police instead of a gang war/civil war because the leadership of the Death Eaters actually sit down and discuss their goals amongst themselves.

Most of what's written so far is just the adoption, though. So yay more ritual magic, I guess xD


	45. Back in Black

It's amazing, really, how fast one's life can change. All it takes is a single moment of confusion, a single lapse in judgement, and the whole world can turn on its axis.

Hermione Granger was no stranger to this effect.

Had she not felt it when Minerva McGonagall sat down for the first time on her parents' sofa, and told her about Hogwarts, or when Lizzie had agreed to come home with her for the first time, or when they had come so close to dying in the Forbidden Forest her first year? Had she not known it when she made the choice (encouraged by Lilian, but it was still her choice) to turn the Time Turner back to its fullest extent, and when she agreed to Snape's offer of guided reading? When she decided to attend her first Samhain ritual, and to take her future into her own hands by hiding the extent of the adventures she experienced at school? When her parents had found out about everything anyway, and decided to support her? The first time she let the twins kiss her? When her parents asked how she felt about adopting her best friend, or earlier that fateful morning, when Lizzie had said 'yes'?

Her life could have changed irrevocably at any moment, really, but this… this was an exponentially greater turning point than most – far more like the moment when her mother chose to keep her than choosing Ravenclaw over Gryffindor or any of the thousands of other choices Hermione had made in the four (or five-and-a-half) years since she had learned magic was real.

The horrible, tragic thing was, she hadn't realized it when she made it.

* * *

She had been waiting patiently in the Time Room in the Department of Mysteries, trying (and failing) to eavesdrop on the office where Unspeakable Santiago, Professors Snape and McGonagall, and the Head of the DoM Mentee Program were arguing over whether she would be allowed to keep her Time Turner in light of her flagrant over-use of the thing over the course of the past school year. A Researcher she hadn't met before had bustled up to her, apologizing for his tardiness, and hustled her into another office, apparently to help with some experiment or other. It was easy to see that he must have mistaken her for someone else, someone who had volunteered for… whatever it was she was wrapped up in before she could make the preoccupied wizard understand that she had no idea what was going on or who he was.

She even tried to ask what the experiment was designed to test, but received no answers other than " _This_ ," and an intricately carved stone ball. The exterior was dark, smooth and polished. It was hollow, with cut-outs that allowed her to see a second, lighter ball inside of it, similarly polished and carved out, and flashes of a golden, glowing sphere at the center.

As soon as the Researcher dropped the artifact into her hand from his (gloved, she noticed belatedly), the entire thing began to glow, illuminating unfamiliar, previously invisible runes. A wave of power swept out of it, and with a sensation not unlike the hooking of a port-key behind her navel and the familiar spinning of the plane outside of time moving past her, she was wrenched from the room.

She had just enough time to recognize the time-travel for what it was, and feel a deep sense of foreboding at the fact that the device that had predicated her impromptu trip seemed to have vanished (unlike a port-key, it had not bound itself to her hand) before she hit the anti-infiltration wards surrounding the Department of Mysteries, and was re-directed to an unobtrusive nook somewhere in London with a sensation much like running headlong into a brick wall.

She nearly fell on being dropped back into the normal flow of time, not to mention the impact with the wards. She _did_ stagger, away from the safety of the nook, across the pavement, and right into the path of an oncoming lorry, insensible to the danger as she gasped for breath and tried to keep herself from being utterly overwhelmed by a migraine, while simultaneously checking to make sure that all of her limbs and wand and bookbag were present.

She didn't hear the voice yelling for her to move, or the screech of the driver's brakes, or see anything at all of her surroundings until a strong arm wrapped around her and carried her in a (very dramatic) dive back onto the pavement. The lorry, swerving, missed them by inches, and then missed tipping over by inches, but its driver managed to recover and sped off with a long and angry blast on the horn.

The dark-haired, leather-clad boy who had saved her life groaned, sitting up slowly as she pushed her ridiculous curls (Lilian was right, she should just cut them off) out of her face.

"Who are you, anyway?" he asked abruptly, and she realized that he had been nattering on under his breath.

What, exactly, he had been saying was entirely unimportant, because it was at that point that she managed to get a good look at him, and realized (shock on top of shock) that she was staring at a fifteen-year-old Marauder.

"Black!" she exclaimed, before the question fully registered. "I mean, Maia," she had corrected herself. "It's um… I'm Maia."

"Maia… Black?" he asked, looking rather dazed. "Not… you're not my _cousin_ Maia? Um… are you?"

"Maybe?" she ventured, her mind scrambling for any way to get out of this predicament, but coming up with nothing.

"Sorry, I think I might've hit my head," he admitted, rubbing at the back of his skull and wincing. "My name's Sirius."

"Sirius…?"

"Black. Yeah, weird name, I know. You can call me Padfoot. All my friends do," he offered, scrambling to his feet and offering her a hand up.

"I quite like the name Sirius," she smiled, despite her panic. "Brightest star in the sky."

He gave her a charming grin. "And Maia is the eldest of the Pleiades. Everyone in my family is named for stars – that's why I thought you might be a cousin at first. But I don't suppose we really are related. It's not so uncommon a name, really."

"Not for muggles, no," she agreed absently, still trying to process the fact that she had to be in… Black was in the same year as Lizzie's parents, and they had been twenty when they died in 1981, so… 1976? '77? _Fuck_ , she wasn't even _born_ yet!

Relief was obvious on the young wizard's face as he grinned from ear to ear. "You're a witch? I knew it! I could've sworn you dropped out of nowhere! But – does that mean you really _are_ my cousin? I thought you were older…?"

She shrugged. "I'm… sixteen."

"You sure about that?" he smirked.

"No," she answered simply. "I'm not sure of anything, anymore. What year is it?"

He laughed, but grew serious when he saw the look on her face. "You're… not kidding?"

She shook her head.

"1976. 31st July. I'm skiving off on Lammas preparations. Care to join me?"

"I… I'm not sure that's such a good idea…" she answered faintly.

"It's not _that_ big a deal. I mean, I'm an adult, now, technically. For the ritual, at least. They can't _make_ me swear to the Dark if I don't want to, and if I'm not doing it, I don't see why I should have to help with the preparations. It's best all around, if I'm not there right now, actually, because if I have to sit through another of Mother's lectures or one more of Bella's –"

"Will you shut up?!" she demanded, massaging her temples and trying to think.

He hesitated, at least, before asking, carefully, "What are you doing here? How did you get here?"

She peered into his eyes for a long moment, trying desperately to divine whether he was truly trustworthy, before deciding that she had no choice. Now, in 1976, she had _no one_ , and no money, and no idea what to do. "I'm… I don't know how I got here. I was in the Department of Mysteries, and then… it was 1994, Sirius. I swear to God, I woke up this morning in 1994. It was Lizzie's birthday – oh, God!" she cut herself off as she realized that for all intents and purposes she had just disappeared from her parents' life, and Lizzie's – maybe forever, if she couldn't find a way to get home.

"Are – you're a _time traveler_?!" Sirius exclaimed delightedly, obviously with no thought for anyone who might overhear, or the trauma that un-intentional time-travel might cause.

"Sirius!" she snapped.

"No, this is great! We've got to tell Jamie and Remy and Pete – and maybe Dumbledore, if you know anything that could help with the war, and –"

"Sirius, I am _not_ going to tell Dumbledore! I'm not telling _anyone_ until we figure out what to do! And you shouldn't, either."

"But –"

"No! I want to go _home_ , and that means not forcing the timeline to diverge too much from the history of my own universe!"

"But how are you even going to _do_ that?! Time travel isn't like, an intentional thing!"

"Do you think I don't _know_ that?!" she nearly shouted at him. "It doesn't _matter_! I have to go _home_!"

"Well, before that, you have to clean up, and eat something, and maybe take a nap," the wizard said, his tone just shy of patronizing enough for her to hex him in the middle of a muggle street. "Come on, I'll take you to the Potters' – Dorea won't mind, and they'll take care of you until you, you know, invent a reliable method of time travel to take you home…"

He raised his wand as though to summon the Knight Bus, but Hermione stopped him, grabbing his wrist and forcing it down, because his words had reminded her of something: _'She did the arithmancy, the Dark Lord did the enchanting, and they managed to make the first working prototype in 1971, just as the War was kicking off. They didn't manage to move a target or anything other than the hourglass itself for years. Liam Rosier, who was a transfiguration prodigy, is credited with managing to link the field to a target in '77. They moved onto human trials just before I joined the Death Eaters in '78…'_

It was almost the first thing Snape had ever told her about Time Turners, and the 'she' he had been referring to was Bellatrix Black. If she had done the arithmancy for the first Time Turners, she _must_ have some sort of (relatively accurate) theoretical concept of how time _worked_ as a dimension which could be traversed, and those notes would be Hermione's best bet for figuring out how to get home.

"I've got a better idea," she said with her best impression of Lilian's cheeky grin. "You said you _do_ have a cousin called Maia, right?"

Sirius let out a barking laugh and grinned back. "Yeah, and I haven't seen her at a family ritual for years, so I'm guessing no one else knows what she looks like anymore either. This is going to be hilarious!"

* * *

It probably had been, Hermione would allow, hilarious for Sirius. On her end, it had been more along the lines of _harrowing_. She had been welcomed with open arms to the manse called Ancient House. They used the floo at Sirius' parents' townhouse, where they had transfigured Hermione's robes into something more or less appropriate, and Sirius showed her a Black Family Ancestry Tapestry. They had identified 'her' parents: Regulus Black (of the Black-Nashi line) had died the year before, and Aryn Kelly had died nearly a decade before that. Maia herself was still alive, according to the Tapestry (albeit almost two years older than Hermione, having been born in 1958), but according to Sirius, she hadn't even showed up to her father's funeral. It had, apparently, been quite the scandal within the House.

It was armed with that meagre information that she was forced to fend off a frankly astonishing number of female cousins and aunts, led by Sirius' mother, all of whom were eager to catch up with the girl they had not seen since before her poor mother died. She did her best to give away as little as possible about what 'she' had been doing for the past ten years, but long before dinner was served, her obvious lack of training as a proper young pureblooded witch and vague responses had more than one Black lady watching her suspiciously out of the corners of their eyes.

She had almost been relieved when Bellatrix had appeared – a few years older than the impression Tonks had done for her and Mary the Christmas before, in her late twenties, but still recognizably the same woman – and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, steering her out of the parlor where she had been cornered and into a study, where a wizened old man and a sulking Sirius were waiting for them.

The man looked between the three of them with what Hermione thought might be irritation before demanding, "Well, one of you tell me what all this fuss is about. And make it quick. We're due at table in," he checked his watch, "twenty minutes."

Sirius crossed his arms stubbornly, and Hermione teetered on the verge of revealing all before Bellatrix did it for her: "This girl is an imposter, Pater Arcturus," she drawled, with a too-familiar smirk. "Who she _is_ , I haven't the faintest idea, but I _guarantee_ she is no daughter of the House of Black."

"How would you know?" Sirius snapped petulantly.

His cousin gave him a patronizing smile. "Given that she evidently knows nothing about the family, has no manners, and not even the trace of an American accent, despite Cousin Maia having attended Liberty Salem for the past seven years, I'd say it was obvious. Where did you find her? On the side of the Hogsmeade High Street?"

"Of course not," Sirius scoffed.

Bellatrix sighed. "I've no idea what you're playing at, Sirius, but it ends now. She is not one of us, and she will not be attending the ritual as one of the family."

The boy tensed, as though readying himself for a fight as he said, "That's fine. I'm not attending either. We'll go back to Grimmauld after dinner."

The elder witch opened her mouth, but before she could say whatever she intended, Arcturus, the Paterfamilias, cut her off. "You, girl," he said. "What have you got to say for yourself?"

Hermione looked from one Black to the next and opened her mouth to lie, before she noticed Bellatrix performing the Venetian Veracity Indicator, and thought better of it. She was pretty sure the Death Eater saw her change her mind, because she smirked and winked as the light at the end of her wand glowed bright and clear. "Whenever you're ready, ' _Maia_ ,'" she said, sarcasm twisting the nick-name into a mockery.

"My name is Maia," she admitted slowly. The light at the end of Bellatrix's wand went blue. "Hermione," she corrected herself quickly. The light went green, but with the yellowish tinge that meant she was holding information back. "I… don't want to tell you my last name." A true green, finally.

"Why not?" Sirius asked thoughtlessly.

Hermione glared at him, and he looked stricken. "Because," she bit out. "It would… put me in danger." Yellow.

"Why?" Bellatrix grinned, obviously enjoying her discomfort.

The younger witch transferred her glare and did her best Snape impression, staring her down in stony silence, despite her shaking hands and knees. The Occlumency she had practiced with Blaise and Snape was the only thing stopping her from falling to the ground in tears, but it wasn't nearly good enough for her to get away with lying under a truth charm.

"Fine, don't answer. I'll get it out of you eventually." The Death Eater's grin was positively sadistic. Hermione could just imagine how she planned to go about getting that information. Suddenly the idea of getting close to her to get to her notes on time travel sounded like a terrible plan. "Where are you from?"

"Not here. I… I shouldn't be here. I know. I'm sorry. I just – I'm not from here." Orange. Partially untrue. "I'm from Magical Britain, but…" Yellow. "I got lost." Still yellow, but she wasn't willing to say any more.

"Why are you here, and pretending to be Regulus' Maia?" Arcturus asked. He sounded tired.

Hermione hesitated, her eyes darting to Bellatrix. "I… thought it would be… helpful. That, um… someone, in the House of Black, might have… information I need to get home." Yellow, of course.

"And whose idea was that?" Arcturus asked forbiddingly.

"Mine," Hermione answered quickly, relieved to be able to answer honestly for once, and eager to exonerate Sirius from any wrong-doing. "Sirius offered to introduce me to the Potters instead, but he had already mentioned he had a cousin Maia, and I thought it might be better – it was stupid, I know." Green. "Just – just let me go. Let me leave. I'll… I won't bother you. I'll find some other way."

The light purple light of honest intent met her begging. Arcturus didn't seem to be paying much attention to her, though. He had turned to harangue Sirius over agreeing to let some stranger into the House. Bellatrix didn't seem to be paying much attention to any of them.

She was the next person to address Hermione, though. "How long have you known Sirius, Miss… _Hermione_?"

"We met earlier today."

"A _perfect stranger_!" Arcturus glared at Sirius.

But Bellatrix's spell was glowing orange. "Try again, ducky," she grinned.

Hermione felt herself breaking out in a nervous sweat. "We… we met… just before the end of my third year at Hogwarts." She didn't dare look at Sirius, but from the triumphant expression on Bellatrix's face, he must have given something away.

"And what year was that, Miss Hermione?" she asked sweetly.

Last year? The only reason no one else had noticed that she was sixteen instead of fourteen was because they had watched her age over the course of the year. 1993? That was even worse! There was no honest answer that wouldn't give away her time travelling.

"You know," she answered flatly. "How do you know?"

Bellatrix laughed, too-sweetly. "You're from here, but not from _here_ , you need special information to get home… information that I might hold. You've obviously known Sirius far longer than he's known you… There's only one answer to the riddle that you present, darling."

"Bellatrix, do explain yourself!" Arcturus demanded.

"She is a time traveler, Pater. Sirius has brought us a time traveler."

"A… but how?" the old man asked, stunned.

"That would be for our guest to explain, I should think," Bellatrix said reasonably, her tone at odds with the downright predatory expression on her face.

So Hermione, seeing no other alternative, explained – roughly – how she had been assigned a time-turner to test and then her misadventure in the Department of Mysteries, and how she did not want to change anything, but only to return to the future she had left, and as soon as possible.

When she finished, Bellatrix laughed, long and hard. Arcturus stared at her with the most blatant expression of speculative exploitation, and Sirius put a protective arm around her.

"Whatever you two are thinking," he said nastily, "you can just forget it!"

Bellatrix scoffed. "Look at the little lion cub, all grown up and fierce with it. Besides, you were the one who brought her into the family, as it were… I'm just thinking to make it a bit more… _official_. If, that is, Pater Arcturus will give his blessing."

The old man started, jolted out of his reverie by the sound of his name. "An adoption?" he asked, surprise clear in his tone.

Bellatrix nodded. Sirius immediately shook his head. "No. Maia – no. You can say no. You don't want to be a part of this family. _I_ don't want to be a part of this family! Just –"

His voice cut off suddenly under the influence of Bellatrix's silencing charm.

Hermione looked at her in shock. "No. You can't be serious – I… you don't even _know_ me!"

The older witch smiled, the expression identical to the one Elizabeth wore when she was genuinely pleased with herself. "I know you are a time traveler. You have knowledge, experience, which would be invaluable to my little project. I know you are at least… _moderately_ intelligent. Daring and impetuous, yes, to trespass here, but smart enough to know when to cut your losses and admit your lies, at least. All of these are traits we value. And I know you are at least curious about what we might have to offer – why else would you have come here in the first place?" Her voice grew softer as she spoke, until she was nearly whispering in Hermione's ear, sending chills down her spine. "I can feel your power, barely restrained. I can see the darkness behind your eyes. I can recognize potential when Fate and the Lady send it into my path, all unknowing."

"That's _enough_ , Bellatrix!" Sirius hissed, finally overcoming her spell and edging protectively between his cousin and the girl he had brought into their house.

The witch smirked at him. Arcturus cleared his throat, and Hermione jerked away from the Black cousins and the tension between them.

"Regardless of her suitability as a candidate, Bellatrix," the old man began, but Hermione interrupted.

"I'm not. Suitable. I'm muggleborn. A mudblood. Just let me go. Let me leave, and you'll never hear from me again."

The old man's eyes narrowed. " _Sirius_ …" he began, but this time it was Bellatrix who cut him off.

"Somehow I suspect my Lord will forgive my binding so valuable a source of information to us, regardless of the quality of its blood," the witch said blithely.

"But _I_ will not condone your sullying the family line with such nonsense!" Arcturus objected. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief, even as Sirius tensed beside her. His reaction was explained almost instantly, as the old man continued: "Legilimize her and learn all she knows, and all that may be of use to us. Hand her over to your so-called 'Lord' to keep prisoner. _Imperius_ her if you have to. But you will _not_ –"

"I have far too much to do to waste time dealing with an uncooperative source of information on the future," Bellatrix broke in, eyes narrowed, inexplicably angry. "And don't give me that dragon-shite about muddying the family line, Pater! I'm not _asking_ to add her to the _succession_ , and besides, this is the _only_ way you will be getting good little Blacks out of _me_."

It was at that point Sirius piped up, obviously trying to be helpful. "Yeah. It's not like anyone is going to fight Old Snake-Face for – _ouch,_ mother _fucker_ – Bella, _stop it_!"

The witch lifted the silent curse she had cast on Sirius, and went on berating her Paterfamilias as though he had not interrupted. "Take a good _fucking_ look at the state of the family, Pater, and then tell me that bringing back blood adoptions is a bad idea!"

"It has been nearly forty _years._ We stopped adopting outsiders for a _reason._ If," the old man hissed, "and I do mean _if_ I were to bring back blood adoptions, the candidates would be of proven stock, and the primary goal would be to increase the number of _wizards_ in the family who might pass on the name, not for… for some ridiculous notion of yours to take in a mudblooded female time traveler!"

"Fuck your politics, Pater!" Bellatrix snapped. "You know as well as I that you haven't done _shite_ for this family since before I was born."

"I should have cast you out of the family when I had the chance!" the old wizard spat.

The Death Eater glared at him. "And _I_ can't wait until _you_ finally take a running leap through the Veil, but in the meanwhile, our deal still stands."

The Paterfamilias of the House of Black went pale. "You _wouldn't_. Not over… _this_."

"You think not? Try me. _Lady_ Bellatrix, Head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black has a certain ring to it, does it not? Though to be perfectly honest, your thoughts on the matter would be entirely irrelevant, because by that point, _you_ would be _dead_."

Sirius was gaping at his relatives. Hermione was similarly astonished – how had the question of whether to adopt her (not that she actually wanted to be adopted into the House of Black) descended to the level of _death threats_? In under two minutes?

" _That's_ why he lets you do whatever you like?" the younger wizard asked incredulously. "Because you've threatened to kill him?"

"Because I've threatened to _challenge_ him for the position of Head of the Household according to the House Laws," Bellatrix corrected him, even as Arcturus snarled, "I do not let her do whatever she likes!"

The witch smirked. "But you _will_ let me do what I like in this instance, won't you, Pater? Because it would make my fucking holiday to kill you, and you know it."

The old man conceded defeat with an astounding lack of grace. "Fine!" He held out an ageing hand, palm up. "Do it quickly, and have done with it!"

Bellatrix produced a dueling knife and sliced his hand open without blinking. He winced, but allowed her to collect the blood that pooled in the hollow of his palm before healing it and vanishing all traces of the wound.

He managed to get the last word, as well, sweeping out the door: "Hurry up about it, before you're late for dinner!"

Bellatrix watched him go with a self-satisfied smirk.

Hermione found herself edging away from the older witch. She must have made some sound, or perhaps Sirius gave her away by watching her move, because without even looking, the Death Eater said, "Where do you think _you're_ going, missy?"

The time traveler froze. "Look," she said, in her best mollifying tone. "I get that you're extending me a great honor and there are all kinds of advantages to being associated with an Ancient and Noble House, but I already have a family. I don't want to be adopted. I just –"

"What makes you think you have a choice?" Bellatrix cut her off.

"Wha…? I…"

"Of course she has a choice," Sirius said mulishly. "She's my age! You'll need her consent!"

The dark witch rolled her eyes. "Oh, _that_. Well, then, your _choice_ is between a blood adoption and being handed over to my Lord to be held as a valuable prisoner."

"I – you can't _do_ that!" Hermione objected. "It's… it's extortion, or –"

The Death Eater snorted. "Just an outright threat, actually. I'm sure you can imagine the sort of thing we do to prisoners to ensure their cooperation. But it doesn't need to be like that. If you volunteer information, I will do everything in my power to return you to your own future, regardless of how far the histories diverge. Think of the adoption as… protection, and a sign of good faith. On _both_ sides."

"Can – can I have a minute to think about it?"

Bellatrix rolled her eyes again. "I hardly see what there is to think about, but if you _must_ …"

Hermione dragged Sirius aside, into a corner, casting Snape's anti-eavesdropping charm as she did so. "Should I do it?" she asked, with no preamble.

Sirius tugged at his hair and sighed, but after a few seconds… "Yes." She gaped at him. "Look, if it's really a choice between the Blacks and her Master, I'd pick us, and she doesn't bluff about things like that. At least the family will offer you some protection. And that includes from anyone else who hears there's a time traveler about and tries to snatch you. I mean, the Death Eaters would probably try to get you back, but Family Magic would give you an edge in defending yourself and us in finding you."

"Is that the only reason she wants this?" Hermione hissed. "Surely there are tracking spells, or…"

Sirius tugged at his hair again. "It would also let her do blood magic on you, like compel you not to deceive her. I think that's probably the most important thing, since she wants information from you. Of course, if she does _that,_ she won't be able to deceive _you_ , either, but then, she's never really cared much about hiding anything, so she probably thinks it's worth it."

That was… very tempting, the time traveler considered. Especially since the dark witch had also promised to find a way to send her home. And she had read enough Dark Arts to know that blood-magic worked both ways. If Bellatrix could use it on her, she could use it against Bellatrix, as well. On the other hand, she would be giving information on time travel to the Death Eaters, and who _knew_ how that would change the scope of the war? She didn't want Voldemort to _win_.

Or… did she? A tiny, traitorous thought in the back of her mind reminded her that she had seen the other option, and Snape _did_ say that He wasn't _entirely_ insane before Lily had twisted his own curse around on him. She _knew_ that the Muggleborn Genocide didn't _really_ start until after that battle. Maybe… maybe she needed to learn more about the situation before she accounted for the war as a variable. After all, if history proceeded as it was meant to, it was going to get a lot worse for everyone before it got better.

And in any case, if she was going home, well… she couldn't quite bring herself to believe that these people didn't really matter _at all_ , or that they weren't quite real, but they mattered a lot less to her than the people from her own timeline. (She couldn't let herself start thinking about alternate timelines and feeling guilty for every _good_ choice she'd ever made because some other version of herself and her friends was stuck in a world where she'd made a _bad_ one, instead. That was just _asking_ for a nervous breakdown.)

So, bottom line: the adoption meant that she would have leverage of a sort over Bellatrix, and an in with the Death Eaters and a better chance of getting home than, she was sure, any other major player could offer her at the moment. Dumbledore didn't have time to even think about time travel, and the Department of Mysteries hadn't made real progress with it until they had the fruits of the Death Eaters' research in hand, which they didn't, yet. As a prisoner… she could only imagine. She doubted it would be good, after rejecting the honor that Bellatrix, who was already a major player in the organization, had extended to her. 'Living hell' might be more accurate.

"Is there anything else I should know, if I choose to take the adoption?" she asked Sirius, who was watching her anxiously.

"Um… Arcturus can use the Family Magic for a proper geis. He put a ban on Orion to stop him raising hand or wand against me and my brother. And he'd have the right to marry you off like any other Daughter of the House, but I doubt Bella would let him. And you'd probably have to swear to the Dark, for the Covenant. Um… I can't really tell you about that. Family Secret. Just know you'd have to become a dark witch. And… I think that's it, basically."

Hermione frowned. She knew that becoming a 'dark witch' just meant that she would find it much easier to use dark magic and much more difficult to use light magic, and she was willing to wager she already knew as much about the Dark Arts as Sirius – at least theoretically. She knew it didn't mean she would have to use what she knew. But it would be more tempting than it already was. And the idea of that mean old coot having the power to compel her through the family magic was disturbing. "Arcturus – would he try to use me to get back at Bellatrix for forcing his hand?"

The boy shrugged. "Probably not. I think she'd protect you like Narcissa and Reg. No one crosses her when it comes to them. They know what happened to Cygnus."

"Cygnus?"

"Her father. She killed him for abusing her little sister. Um. We don't talk about her. Ever."

It didn't take much to put that one together: she knew that Bellatrix and Narcissa Malfoy were sisters, and so were Lady Malfoy and Mrs. Tonks, once upon a time. "Andromeda?"

Sirius looked at her with an expression caught somewhere between confusion and surprise, but said, "Yeah. She left the family, five years ago. It was… Bella refuses to admit she ever existed. Don't bring it up if you don't want to get hexed."

"O…kay…" Definitely another point to add to the minus side of the balance sheet: adoption meant dealing with Black Family Drama. But the advantages still outweighed them – or rather, the negatives of didn't seem to outweigh the horrors she imagined would await her as Voldemort's prisoner. _I should have just gone to the Potters'_ , she thought anxiously, as half-formed thoughts of somehow escaping rushed wildly through her head. But if that were an option, she was sure Sirius would have already gotten her out of there. He looked every bit as anxious and miserable as she felt.

She kept her voice as calm and even as possible as she said, "Okay. I'll do it. Miss, um… Bellatrix?" she raised her voice. "I'll do it. The adoption."

"Fabulous," the elder witch said, so drily it sounded sarcastic, but her grin seemed genuine enough as she gestured for Hermione to come to her. "Siri, you recall the ritual?"

The boy nodded warily. "Yes, but –"

Whatever objection he intended to make, Bellatrix utterly ignored. "Excellent. Meet us at the Keep," she said, linking her arm through Hermione's. And then, with the most awful disintegrating sensation, the dark witch pulled her into some traveling dimension she had never before experienced.

It was a dark void, not entirely unlike the experience of being put under an Isolation Hex, but with the key difference that she was _certain_ her senses were still functioning. There was just nothing for her to sense – only the solid warmth of Bellatrix at her right side. She clung to the witch frantically, fearing that if she let go, she would drift in the empty blackness forever. Death would be a blessing, if she found herself trapped _there._

Thankfully, the trip was short, or at least it seemed short. They materialized in the middle of an enormous circle of what seemed to be solid basalt (though on further inspection, it was many smaller, hexagonal pieces, fitted together near-seamlessly) that radiated magic with a dark intensity Hermione had never felt anywhere else. It was as though she was drowning, the air too thick to breathe at first. Even the Chamber of Secrets had not held such an aura.

As she recovered from the transportation, she realized that she was on her knees, and her arms were still wrapped around Bellatrix's corseted torso. Someone was petting her hair, and someone else was laughing. She dragged her gaze away from the fabric only inches from her nose, to see, of all people, Tom Riddle, as handsome as he ever had been in Ginny's memories, though older and somewhat more debonair, smirking at the pair of them. Hermione glared at him, but he paid her no attention.

"Side along _shadow walking_ , Bella?" he observed, raising a sardonic brow which was belied by the amusement in his tone.

"I wasn't about to let her try to escape through the floo, and she isn't keyed into the apparition wards," the witch answered defensively.

"It wasn't a criticism," the man noted. "Quite the contrary, in fact. Very impressive. So. What was so terribly urgent that you've called me away from my Lammas preparations?"

Hermione could _hear_ the smirk in the witch's voice as she answered. "I've decided to adopt a mudblood."

There was a moment of stunned silence before Riddle responded, during which Bella clapped delightedly. "See how he's gone all blank?" she whispered to Hermione. "I love it when that happens. It means he's really surprised."

"Like a pet?" Riddle asked, finally.

"No, like a daughter."

"A… daughter." Hermione's disgust with the term must have shown on her face, because he added, chuckling slightly, "She doesn't seem too pleased with the idea. Nor, quite frankly, am I. For one thing, this will necessitate a delay with the Lestrange contract. Explain, if you would."

Though it was phrased as a mere invitation, the tone indicated it was anything but. Bellatrix sighed. "She's a time traveler. I'm sure the implications do not escape you, Master. And negotiations on the Lestrange contract have not even begun. I am confident that this will not be considered any greater a complication than any other aspect of my loyalties, especially since the girl will remain a Black, regardless of my House affiliation."

Riddle's eyes had narrowed at the mention of time travel, and it was that phrase he repeated: "A time traveler? Really? From when?"

Bellatrix shrugged. "Far enough in the future that Mysteries was handing out time turners to schoolchildren. Question her as you will, my Lord. I think you will find the potential she offers to be worth the shame of adopting a mudblood. I did."

"Indeed?" Riddle drew nearer, his eyes fixed on Hermione's face. She refused to meet them, and redoubled her efforts to repel any mental intrusions, but it made no difference. She could feel his magic slipping into her mind like a snake through tall grass, hardly making a disturbance as it passed. "Very poetic, my dear," he murmured. When had he gotten so close? "I could just break her, you know, Bella. She's not a very good occlumens. You needn't take her in to gain access to her secrets."

Hermione felt Bellatrix tense beside her. "Planetes are tools of the Powers as much as any Dedicate. She is here because she is meant to be here."

"But to what purpose, my Viper?" the Dark Lord asked, turning his attention fully to the other witch. "We can use her, yes, and perhaps if we do not end her now, she will benefit us in the long run, but perhaps the intentions of the Powers run counter to our goals. To keep her is a risk."

"And who is to say that stripping her mind and killing her before she accomplishes whatever task the Powers have brought her here to carry out will not bring their wrath down upon us and our work? I will not second-guess myself, Master. Not in this."

The Dark Lord crossed his arms, and glared at her. "I don't like it."

Bellatrix, inexplicably, grinned. "That, my Lord, is because you are a creature of Order. Think of it thusly: the appearance of a Wanderer is like a true Prophecy. Whatever the Powers intend shall come to pass, now, and we, as always, shall take what advantage we may from the situation. Besides, the risk is what keeps things interesting!"

The wizard rolled his eyes. "Very well. If you are truly determined to be a brat about this, you may keep her. Is that all?"

"Yes, my Lord," Bellatrix answered, slinking forward and rising to her toes to press a kiss to his jaw. He smirked, and inclined his head so that she could kiss him properly, steadying her at the elbow.

"It may interest you to know that her name is Hermione Jean Granger, and she is from the year 1994," he offered, just as Sirius arrived, sprinting through the trees.

"Sorry!" he apologized, stumbling into Hermione. "Mother trapped me before I could reach the floo." Then he looked up, and realized that they were not alone with his cousin. "De Mort. What are _you_ doing here?"

"You will address my Lord with _respect_ ," Bellatrix hissed at the boy, directing her wand at him threateningly.

"He's _your_ lord, not mine and we both know he doesn't have a real title. Are we still pretending he's French? _Monsieur_ De Mort, then. Wha – _aaaagh!_ " Sirius fell to the ground twitching and flailing.

The curse – the Cruciatus, surely – it matched the descriptions she had read, and Bellatrix was known to favor it – lasted only a few seconds: just long enough for Riddle to snap, "Bellatrix!" She let it go, and he continued, "Much as I appreciate your defense of my honor, I am perfectly capable of defending it myself, should I deem it necessary. Those who serve me do so willingly or not at all, and I will allow some lenience for those whose loyalty I still hope to _earn_." Hermione was only half listening, kneeling beside the fallen Sirius, but she was perfectly capable of recognizing a good-cop routine when she saw one, especially when Riddle offered Sirius a hand up. The boy ignored it (much as Riddle ignored Bellatrix's muttering about how it was in insult to _her_ as much as to _him_ ), scrambling to his feet and leaning heavily on Hermione as he spat blood at the older wizard's feet.

"Y-your h-hopes are m-m-mis-placed, _sir_ ," he retorted, putting as much scorn as he could into the last word. "A true B-Black b-bows to _no one_. And ccc – definite-ly n-not _you_."

"If you have something to say to me, Sirius, say it _to_ _me_ ," Bellatrix interrupted before Riddle could respond. _"_ But don't forget, I _know_ you. I _raised_ you, as much or more than dear Auntie Walburga. And you are far more like _me_ than you want to admit. Poor Little Siri, always trying to be something he's not, longing to impress his little lion-cub friends. Who would _you_ bow to, Sirius? Albus Dumbledore? No… no… little Jamie Potter? Ah! How sad for you that –"

"Shut up! Just _shut up!_ You don't have a b- _bloody_ clue what you're t-talking ab-bout!"

"Don't I? Was Narcissa mistaken, then, about the nature of your friendship? Do you not love him, and in an entirely different way than your precious brother? Reggie has seen it too, you know…"

Bellatrix continued to speak, overriding Sirius any time he tried to get a word in edge-wise, but Hermione was distracted at that point by Riddle sighing heavily in her ear. "I _do_ love the Blacks," he murmured. "They're so terribly passionate – even Bella. It's rather amusing, don't you agree?" Apparently her response was not required, because he circled away to stand beside the cousins, still speaking. "But I _do_ have other business to attend to today, Bellatrix," he said pointedly, raising his voice to cut through the argument.

The witch stopped speaking at once. Sirius took advantage of her silence to good effect: "You're one to call _me_ a dog, Trixie, kept on his leash as you are. Do you roll over and come when he orders you as well?"

Bellatrix flushed and raised a hand to smack him across the face, but Riddle caught her by the wrist with a smirk. "She does, in fact. She also goes where I will and kills at my word. I would be happy to demonstrate _why_ , if you like." There was a definite seductive undertone in the elder wizard's voice as he advanced on Sirius until their chests were nearly touching. Sirius, though he was several inches shorter, refused to look up, staring resolutely ahead, hands shaking. The Dark Lord, likewise, did not deign to look down, but spoke over his head as he made his intent only too clear, his voice so soft Hermione had to lean in to hear it: "I can taste your longing like a scent on the air. My Viper and I… we could _ruin_ you for anyone else… Pleasure and pain so closely entwined that you cannot tell where one ends and the other begins... Satisfaction beyond your wildest dreams… You can tell me that you do not want this, but we both know you would be _lying_ …"

He trailed off with the tiniest of smirks, even as Sirius shuddered and his expression of resolve wavered, and Hermione decided she had to intervene. Much as she liked to think of herself as being open-minded when it came to things like sex, she simply couldn't let _anyone_ be so easily seduced by the Dark Lord, and most _certainly_ not a sixteen-year-old boy who _hated_ him.

"Leave him alone, Riddle," she snapped, edging a shoulder between the two wizards, and forcing Sirius to back away.

He looked down to stare at her in a way she couldn't help but think of as threatening. "Are you sure you were a Ravenclaw, my dear?" he asked, sotto voce. "That particular decision seems most… unwise."

Before she could think of a retort, Bellatrix, who had been watching the proceedings with a sort of idle curiosity, asked, " _Riddle_?" and the man in question whirled away to placate her.

"It is not terribly important, _ssh'ih_. We can discuss it later. For the moment, you have an adoption to perform, and I have other business left too long unattended."

Bellatrix nodded. "Yes, my Lord."

"Black, that offer is always open," he grinned, before locking eyes with Hermione and shoving a thought at her hard enough that it pierced straight through her Occlumency shields. She gasped at the pain of it, and shivered at the message itself: _"I have gone to a great deal of effort to dissociate myself from the name Tom Riddle. Wandering star or no, if you value your life, you will keep that particular detail of future knowledge to yourself,_ " unfolding as smoothly as though she might have imagined it.

She was certain she hadn't, though.

His eyes narrowed, demanding a response, and she nodded. He smiled, as though he had not just mentally assaulted her and sexually harassed Sirius. "Best of luck with your adoption, Miss Granger."

"Are you sure you will not stay to observe, Master?" Bella asked, but he shook his head. She sighed. "Very well. I will come after the Black ceremony has concluded."

"Excellent. I have a project in the works which I think you will appreciate."

She bowed and he nodded before disappearing in a curl of dark smoke. Neither of them seemed to mind that neither of the younger couple had made even a token effort at a proper farewell.

Sirius relaxed substantially as soon as the Dark Lord was gone, apparently more concerned about the threat he posed than his cousin's torture spells. "What was that about?" he asked quietly, even as his cousin set about casting runes to harness power for the adoption ritual.

Hermione shook her head. "I'll tell you later," she whispered, silently adding a ' _maybe'_ to her statement. She wasn't entirely certain that she trusted Sirius not to tell anyone, and she had no doubt that Voldemort would follow through on his threat to kill her if she spread his true name about.

"Riddle…" Sirius mused. "That doesn't sound like any magical name I've ever heard of, and believe me, Mother made me memorize all of them."

"Sirius," Hermione hissed furiously, with a quick glance at Bellatrix. "Shut. _Up_. I said _later_. If you must talk about _something_ , tell me what this ritual entails."

The boy looked rather taken aback, but after a moment, shrugged. "I've never seen it done, mind," he began, "because the Family stopped adopting outsiders about… thirty… five years ago? Forty? Sometime around then, anyway, because, well, some political reason. I think. Can't say I was really paying much attention in that particular family history lesson," he grinned unrepentantly. "But there are a few levels of adoption in Magical Britain. Stop me if you know, but I'm assuming you don't – you said you're muggleborn, right?"

Hermione nodded. "Go on."

"Well," he said, ticking off options on his fingers. "There's wardship, which is kind of like being taken in by a godparent, except by a House and not an individual. Anyone can do that, though they'd be in loads of trouble if they didn't clear it with the Head of the Family first, because it's basically bringing someone under the legal protection of House Black. Then there's House adoption, which is kind of similar legally, but only the Head of House can do it, and the adoptee is, oh, what do you call it, when someone is, you know, allowed to do a certain thing, or qualified…?"

"Eligible?" Hermione offered, distracted by the tangent.

"Yes! That's the word. So a House adoptee is eligible to become the Head of House or the Heir or whatever. The McKinnons adopted their current Head of House. But most families won't do that, even Light families, unless they're trying to shake a bloodline curse without losing their name and, you know, for political reasons."

"Is that… that's not what we're doing here, is it?" the girl asked. She was quite certain the ritual had been referred to as a _blood_ adoption earlier, which sounded infinitely more ominous.

Sirius hesitated. "Erm… no. Ah… the House of Black uses a blood-adoption ritual. Or well, we did, back when we adopted people all the time. Which, um. Really the legal stuff is the same, because you can't really tell people you used a blood ritual because it's illegal – bioalchemy, actually. Ritualized. So you can't un-do it. I guess it's kind of like replacing one of your parents?"

"Stop spouting rubbish, Sirius," Bellatrix said, apparently done casting her runes. They flashed and flared like fire opal against the dark stone of the ritual space. "It doesn't _replace one of your parents_ any more than the Oath of Godparenthood breaks the bond between child and parent," she assured Hermione, rolling her eyes expressively. "It's… additive."

"But," Sirius interjected. "What about –"

Bellatrix sighed. " _Yes_ , it can cause some features to present differently afterward. But it's not so straightforward as 'you had your mother's eyes and hair, but now you'll have mine.' You might still have your mother's eyes and your father's nose and inherit the Black coloring or the like. Now, if you two are done wasting time, both of you, step into the circle."

Sirius did as he was told, despite looking as though he very much wanted to do anything else. He winced and shuddered as he crossed the runes, shifting in obvious discomfort as he waited.

The time traveler hesitated. "Sorry, but… I still don't understand – what do I have to do?" she asked nervously, eyeing the flickering magic that defined the perimeter of the circle in question.

Bellatrix fixed her with an unamused stare. "It would literally take longer to describe the ritual and your role in it than to just do it. Get in the circle."

With a wary look at the elder witch, the teen stepped carefully over the boundary and into a building well of magical potential. She must have adjusted, she realized, to the presence of power outside of it, because that was nothing compared to the feeling of dark magic rising from the stone around her, like frigid water pooling around her ankles and creeping up her calves, so cold it _hurt_. She shivered, teeth chattering, though the sense of _cold_ had nothing to do with physical temperature, and the involuntary muscle contractions would therefore do nothing to warm her.

In fact, it probably wasn't the 'cold' darkness of the magic, either, which had her shaking in her transfigured sandals, so much as the _finality_ and well, the _invasiveness_ of the ritual she was about to undergo. Blood alchemy – messing about with a living person's genetics, essentially – was… quite frankly terrifying – the stories she had read! Everything was moving far too quickly – she had only been in the past for what? A few hours? And already she was being coopted into a horrifyingly invasive, permanent ritual, tying herself to the Blacks – and worse, to _Bellatrix_ _specifically_ , who was, according to Snape, utterly mad… _I really should have gone to the Potters'_ , she thought regretfully, her hand finding its way into Sirius' as the Death Eater joined them in the circle and began her invocation.

It was… strange, she thought, focusing desperately on that rather than the horror of her situation. The invocation. She wouldn't consider herself any sort of expert on ritual magic by any means, but she had seen a fair few in person at Hogwarts, and read descriptions of many more in her research for Snape, and she thought it was safe to say that most invocations held a sense of… well, pomp and circumstance to them. An air of determination fell over the older witch before she spoke, but when she did, her words were plain English, and her tone was not entirely serious – almost as though she considered the traditional steps of the ritual somehow… unnecessary, Hermione noted distantly. The better part of her attention was directed toward the actual words:

"I call upon the Dark Powers to witness this rite of adoption on the eve of Lammastide. As we shall renew our connections to our house in the sight of the Binding Power, so this girl initiates her own, joining herself to the Eternal House in body, name, and magic. Let Chaos smile upon the potential of this choice and Wisdom guide us in our path, as Death and Transience witness the end of one life and the beginning of another."

The evening light surrounding them seemed to fade away as the magic responded to the call, regardless of the lack of formality in the speaker's tone.

"Your hand." Bellatrix drawled. She sounded almost bored.

Hermione extended her free hand warily. Faster than her eyes could follow, the dark witch drew her blade and sliced into the underside of her wrist. It didn't even hurt at first, so sharp was the knife, so quick the strike. It was only as dark blood welled to the surface, running in rivulets to fall to the ground at her feet that the girl felt the first hint of pain through her shock.

She seized the wound reflexively as she protested, "I –" but the ritualist cut her off with a sadistic grin, pressing the flat of the steel – still stained with her own blood – to her lips.

"Ah ah ah," she tutted mockingly. "Repeat after me, now. I, Hermione Jean, dedicate myself to the Dark. By my blood, my name, and my magic, let it know me."

Hermione swallowed hard as the artificial night closed in. Sirius, as though sensing her nervousness, squeezed her shoulder gently. She gathered her courage and did as ordered. The magic pooling around her feet rose up around her, as though to drown her. She could feel Sirius' hand shaking, gripping her more tightly. Obviously he could feel the magic at work, but he refused to abandon her.

Bellatrix continued: "I welcome the magic of the night and the space between the stars. Come into my heart and be one with me."

The younger witch repeated the words, trembling as she sensed the magic invading her lungs with her next breath, weighing her down like lead in her stomach as it coursed through her veins and seeped into her bones. For all she was familiar with the theory of the Dark Arts, for all she was certain that of all the Powers, Experience was the one which most closely resonated with her own soul, truly dark magic itself was foreign to her, and strange, terrifying and uncomfortable, just shy of painful. She suddenly felt _very_ young.

"I give myself over to the Powers of the Dark, and claim for myself their strength," the Black witch concluded with a challenging expression.

Hermione knew all at once that this was the moment of no return, and that somehow, for some reason, the older woman expected her to fail. Not likely. Once she committed to a thing, she followed through, damn it! "I give myself over to the powers of the dark," she repeated quickly, trying not to think of what was about to happen, "and claim for myself their strength!"

The Death Eater smirked, and the sense of certainty the time traveler had held only seconds before vanished. Had she just been tricked, somehow? But she couldn't dwell on that, as the woman spoke again: "By the power vested in me by Chaos and the Darkness, I confer upon you their blessings. Know the Powers by the tenor of your magic, and let the symbol of your life stand surety of the covenant between you." She leaned down slightly and pressed her lips chastely to Hermione's.

As though the dark witch had lit a fuse, the magic harbored uncomfortably within the girl's flesh burst into truly painful, searing cold. She had not thought it possible for the power to grow any colder – any _darker_ – than it had been when she stepped into the circle, or when it began to flow with the beating of her heart, chilling her from within, but it did, suffusing every cell, every nerve, freezing her to her marrow. She endured silently, focusing on her breathing and the pounding of her heart to the exclusion of all else until she could no longer feel Sirius' hand on her shoulder or see Bellatrix standing before her, and she was certain she would never be warm again. _This_ , she thought, gasping desperately for air, _must be what a dementor's kiss is like_.

And then something within her twisted – her magic aligning itself to the Dark, she realized, in a shock-ridden, distant-and-academic corner of her mind – and every hint of discomfort vanished. She rather thought she would have fallen to her knees at the abruptness of it, but the magic tingling throughout her body now seemed to buoy her, raising her up even as it tied her to the rest of the universe in new and altogether unexpected ways.

None of the books she had read had said anything about the way it felt altogether natural, now, to reach out to the magic all around her and feel it twining about her own like a cat around her ankles, welcoming her home after an endless day, as though she _belonged_ now in a way she hadn't before, and the universe wanted her to know it. It was vaguely reminiscent of her introduction to Magic on her thirteenth birthday, but far stronger, with greater purpose. It was like… a cold shower, waking her up, the chill magic no longer painful, but refreshing, and her magic hummed in harmony with the world, resonating with the potential around her more perfectly than she had ever felt before.

As the echoes of the ritual faded, she became aware again of Sirius' hand clenched in her robes, his nails digging into the skin beneath, and the pain in her right wrist (though it seemed the cut itself had healed), and Bellatrix standing only inches away, her face fixed in an expression of ecstasy.

She sighed, breaking the spell, and Hermione glanced back at Sirius, who, it seemed, had not derived the same pleasure from the ritual as the witches. His face was contorted in pain, his hold on her shoulder clearly grounding himself, now, rather than attempting to comfort her.

"Sirius," she whispered, carefully laying a hand atop his. She was wary of interrupting the adoption ceremony, but altogether distracted by the fingers digging into her with bruising force. "You're hurting me. Are you okay?"

He grunted, but relaxed his hand with obvious effort.

It was Bellatrix who explained, eyes sparkling with sadistic mirth. "Poor Siri is a bit _sensitive_ when it comes to dark magic. He'll be fine. Now, attend!"

She vanished Hermione's clothing – every bloody stitch – with a wordless wave of her wand. Hermione responded with a startled _eep_ and an attempt to cover herself, though Sirius, still recovering from the previous spell, and Bellatrix, preoccupied with retrieving a familiar vial of blood from one of her pockets, seemed not to notice. She set it on the ground before drawing her dueling knife again and vanishing her own robes.

Hermione couldn't help but stare at the entirely unselfconscious young Death Eater. Her first thought was that Lilian would be jealous: the older witch was incredibly fit, the corset she had worn apparently serving only to enhance her rather small breasts, for her waist was just as trim without it. The muscles in her arms and legs were long and lean, defined in a way that only constant physical exercise would accomplish – a rarity among wizards, to be sure, especially outside of the Quidditch world. More strikingly, she was only ten years or so older than Hermione, and yet her skin bore a veritable tapestry of scars – cuts, burns, and lash-marks (cursed, she presumed, for mundane injuries could be healed so completely as to leave no mark at all) featured prominently, but there were also runes scattered between them, ranging in age from still-red lines that looked as though they could start bleeding at any moment, to raised pink scars, to old, smooth, silvery symbols for strength and endurance, for swiftness and healing, for power, protection, and guidance.

In short, the Blackheart looked like the Amazon she had been named, a magical warrior, her very skin enchanted, bearing the marks of a very real, ongoing war, making that conflict real to Hermione in a way that even meeting the Dark Lord himself hadn't, quite.

After a moment, she shook herself, noting that there were more decorative marks as well – Celtic knots and delicately carved flowers, and what might easily have been a muggle tattoo of the constellation Orion, the star Bellatrix limned in blue at her right shoulder. These stood in sharp contrast to the scars and the ink that marred her left forearm.

Hermione had seen Snape's Dark Mark – a burn-scar vaguely reminiscent of the shape of a skull with a serpent tongue, its lines and shading grey and nearly invisible beneath the damaged flesh. She had imagined it as a solid brand before the Dark Lord's Fall, a plain black stamp of evil. The undamaged version, she now realized, was a nearly photo-realistic black and white image of a human skull, only three inches tall, its mouth harboring an animated black serpent which coiled and shifted in response to the witch's movements.

"Nine _hells_ , Bella!" Sirius said, apparently recovered enough to notice the fact that his cousin was now nude. "What the fuck has that bastard done to you?"

The time traveler realized belatedly that the dark witch must have dismissed some sort of concealing magic along with her clothes, because she hadn't noticed any of the scars on her arms or chest before, and apparently neither had Sirius.

Bellatrix glared at him and took two swift steps, swiping at his face and carving a shallow gash across his left cheekbone. " _Respect_ , brat! You _will_ learn it!"

The boy glared at her, ignoring the blood dripping down his face and the threatening knife poised only inches from his left eye. "I'm not the one with the Dark Lord's property brand on my left arm or his runes in my skin!" he snapped defiantly.

"Ooh, look at baby cousin, all over-protective," the woman sneered. "I've forgotten more about enchanting the flesh than you'll ever know, Siri. I trust my master and his work. Now are you going to do your part or not?"

Sirius wiped his face clean with a quick swipe of the back of his hand, sneering magnificently at his cousin. "You owe me, Trixie," he muttered, turning to Hermione.

Bellatrix snorted, obviously amused, but neither of the cousins explained, and the time traveler was quickly distracted by the boy's uncharacteristically sober expression. He waited a moment longer before speaking, a matter of dramatic timing, she thought, or else bracing himself for the next stage of the ritual.

"I speak as a scion of the House of Black, as one who would be kin to the woman before me. Hear me, Powers, and witness!" Dark magic swirled around them, rising up from the ground in a way that made Hermione want to giggle, and Sirius visibly wince, but left no doubt that the magic was, in fact, paying attention. "Hermione Jean, would you, upon your magic, swear to put it at the disposal of the House of Black and your newfound kin?"

The girl thought that sounded rather ominous, honestly, but she was certain there was only one correct response if she wished to go forward with the adoption. And given the alternative… "I would," she said quietly. Sirius gave her a tiny nod, as the magic encircled her tightly, binding her to the sentiment of behind her vow.

"Would you swear, upon your life, to place the wellbeing of the House of Black before it, or that of any other individual?"

"I… I would." _Though that sounds even worse than the last one_ , she thought as the sense of binding magic redoubled.

"Would you swear upon your honor to place your duties to the House of Black and your newfound kin before all others, including the House of your birth and the family who raised you?"

That was, Hermione thought, possibly the easiest of the three vows to uphold, given that her parents didn't know her from any passing stranger at the moment. "Yes," she said firmly. "I would." The magic wrapped itself around her so tightly she felt she hardly ought to be able to move, though it was nothing physical. She gasped.

Sirius raised his hand to the cut on his cheek, then made a face when he realized it was no longer bleeding. He held his left hand out to Bellatrix with a long-suffering expression, mouthing _'ow_ ' emphatically as her knife bit into the meat of his palm, to the woman's apparent amusement.

Hermione couldn't identify the symbol he drew over her heart, and she had no hope of divining the meaning of the one on her forehead, which she couldn't even see. "Let the magic of the night and the space between the stars judge the truth of the intentions of this woman who would make herself kin to the Eternal House," Sirius declaimed, and the symbols burst into – well, it _felt_ like fire, as though the marks were searing their way through her flesh and into her very _soul_ , seeking out any hint of deception or any desire to harm the House, but it probably wasn't.

Hermione came to that conclusion later: in the moment, she was far more concerned with the pain. It abated after seconds or minutes, she couldn't have said, and she found herself on her knees, face streaming with tears.

Sirius, his face hard, helped her up, then turned to Bellatrix. "The Powers have judged the candidate's intentions to be true. I, Sirius Orion, First Son and Heir to the House, do stand beside the candidate as a worthy kinswoman."

Bellatrix positively _cackled_. "Excellent. I speak as a scion of the House of Black, as the one who would claim this child as my daughter. Hear me, Powers, and witness my claim. I offer guidance, fulfilling a mother's sacred duty to shape her daughter's future. I offer protection, as a mother needs must support her child against the dangers inherent in her life. I offer identity, family, and a place in this world, the bond between mother and child unassailable and recognized by all. In return, I would that my daughter trust in my guidance, repay protection with loyalty, and respect myself and the name which she is offered this night. As it is agreed, let it be so sworn."

"Erm…" Hermione hesitated. Trust, loyalty, and respect didn't seem all that high a price for Bellatrix's good will, let alone her protection, especially in comparison to the vows she had just sworn on her honor, life, and magic. But she had no idea how to answer the offer.

Sirius leaned in, apparently sensing her dilemma, to murmur in her ear. "If you agree –" she nodded somewhat desperately. "Okay, so you rephrase the terms, and then say, 'As my lady mother does fulfil our agreement, so too shall I. Twice and thrice-bound, this I swear, before…' and name your witnesses. Magic, my kinsmen, and the stars are traditional."

The time traveler took a deep breath. "Trust for guidance, loyalty for protection, respect for identity and a place in this world. As… my lady mother…" (Referring to Bellatrix as her mother felt _wrong_ on a truly deep and visceral level.) "…does fulfill our agreement, so too shall I. Twice and thrice-bound, this I swear, before magic, my kinsmen, and the stars," she repeated.

In comparison to the previous oaths, the tingle of magic that confirmed the mutual vows was hardly noticeable, even when Bellatrix grinned and said, "So mote it be." She moved on immediately. "Sirius? You'll have to do the Patriarch's lines by proxy."

"Great," he muttered, then sighed, his shoulders momentarily slumped in resignation. "You have to kneel," he told her, taking her hands between his as she did so, rather confused.

He straightened his posture before declaring, "I speak as the Heir of the House of Black, on behalf of its Patriarch, with his knowledge, by his will. Would you, Hermione Jean, swear homage to the House of Black, submitting yourself to its protection and acknowledging the authority of its lord?"

"Erm… yes, I would," Hermione answered, uncertain how this differed from the earlier test of her worthiness as an adoptee, but willing to play along, especially having come this far already.

"Would you swear loyalty, placing the honor and wellbeing of the House of Black above all others?"

"Yes."

"Would you swear fealty, bound by blood to the will of the House and the authority of its Lord?"

"I… yes."

"Then repeat after me: I, Hermione Jean, swear before magic, before my would-be kinsmen, and the stars…"

"I, Hermione Jean, swear before magic, before my would-be kinsmen and the stars…"

 _I swear before magic, my would-be kinsmen, and the stars… to be true and faithful to the House of Black… to support the Family as asked of me… and never, by word or deed, do anything to harm the wellbeing of the House… and that the House shall hold my highest loyalty… I swear unto the Lord of Black my wand, my honor, and my will… that I might be recognized as a full member of the house… with all the rights and responsibilities entailed therein._

She repeated it all, word perfect, hands trembling in Sirius' clammy grip. When it was done, he said, solemnly, "I, Sirius Orion, Heir of the House, on behalf of its Head, do accept your vow, Hermione Jean, and do recognize you as a daughter of the House, with all the rights and responsibilities thereof. As it is agreed, let it be so sworn."

Thrown for a moment, Hermione hesitated, but then recalled the line she had used to close the previous phase of the ritual. If she wasn't entirely mistaken, Sirius had just restated the terms, so… "As the House of Black does fulfill our agreement, so too shall I. Twice and thrice-bound, this I swear, before magic, my kinsmen, and the stars," she said again, not quite concealing the tremor of fear in her voice.

She needn't have worried: the magical response was far more like that of her vow with Bellatrix than the testing magic which had had her on the ground in tears. The Heir of the House guided her to her feet and kissed her gently on the lips (rendering her acutely aware of her nudity, which seemed, somehow to have slipped her mind as she focused on the magic and the oaths she was swearing – she might, she decided, be in shock).

The magic washed over her gently as he said, "So mote it be."

He grimaced, of course, at the touch of dark power, but Bellatrix clapped delightedly. "Now for the fun part!" she giggled.

Somehow, Hermione was _certain_ that the 'fun part' wouldn't be 'fun' for _her_.

It might have had something to do with the worn, pained look on Sirius' face.

Nevertheless, he held out his hand to his cousin again, allowing her to re-open the wound on his palm, and circled Hermione to trace a line of sticky symbols down the center of her back. He muttered under his breath as he did so: "By the blood of he who would be your cousin and the beating of your heart, I bind you in brotherhood to the House of Black."

When he was done, she felt an… _awareness_ snap into place between the three of them.

Bellatrix grinned, suggesting she could feel it too, and turned the knife on herself, carving a rune Hermione was certain meant _life_ just above the dark curls that obscured her sex. Before the girl could object, the woman was finger-painting on her body as well. It took a moment for the younger witch to place the single symbol marked above her navel, as it was upside-down from her perspective, but as the elder witch whispered, "By the blood of she who would be your mother and the magic in your bones, I bind you in body to the Family," she recognized it as an adaptation of _othala_ , the one which was most often used to indicate 'child.'

A second connection was born, this one far stronger and somehow… _deeper_ than the first, as though it was taking hold of her on some fundamental level.

And then the elder witch was reaching for the vial, uncorking it and tracing a shape in the center of Hermione's forehead: "By the blood of he who would be your patriarch and the fire in your soul, I bind you in magic to the Family."

This time, the magical response was like a faint echo of the first ritual, a tingling throughout her body and magic, moreso than an actual connection.

Bellatrix must have thought it was working properly, though, because she smiled. "Now repeat: body, magic, and soul, I bind myself to the House of Black."

Crushing her uncertainty and fear beneath her fledgling Occlumency skills, Hermione repeated the words. The runes painted on her skin flared to life, their magic seeking hers, drawing it out.

"Again," Bellatrix demanded.

"Body, magic, and soul, I bind myself to the House of Black," Hermione repeated. Like the dark magic had done not half an hour before, she could feel the binding sinking into her flesh, transforming her, the pain of it not entirely unlike using Polyjuice potion, but an order of magnitude more comprehensive as skin and bone and muscle subtly re-molded itself on the cellular and even genetic level, incorporating Bellatrix's blood into her own, re-writing her biology to reflect that of her newly-adopted mother. When it ended, she was on the ground. Bellatrix was lying next to her, panting and covered in sweat, but her face held an expression of utter exhilaration.

Hermione, by contrast, felt ill and exhausted. She rolled onto her side retching, infinitely grateful to Sirius, who darted forward to hold her hair.

"Again," Bellatrix demanded pitilessly, rising to her feet with more grace than Hermione thought was entirely fair.

She rasped out the sentence weakly, for the third and what she sincerely hoped was the final time. "Body, magic, and soul… I bind myself… to the House of Black."

It was as though a dam burst inside her mind as the House magics enveloped her, speeding her physical recovery from the blood alchemy exponentially; connecting her to every other Black, the bonds of family bursting into life like a new constellation in the darkness of her mind; judging her strength and her magic and finding her not only acceptable, but welcoming her like the Darkness, claiming her on every level as a true daughter of the House. When it faded, she was still lying on the cold stone of what she now recognized as the altar which was the heart of the Family's power, but the pain of the transformation had entirely vanished, leaving in its wake a lassitude she had only previously associated with her private explorations of sexual release.

She was fairly certain she moaned, because she opened her eyes to Bellatrix's laughter, and Sirius was utterly failing to hide a grin, and not even trying to conceal his inspection of his new 'cousin' in all her naked glory. She felt herself flush, and quickly sat up, pulling her knees to her chest to hide what she could, vaguely aware as she did so that her body didn't quite feel like _hers_ , anymore.

"None of that, ducky," Bellatrix sniggered, extending a hand to help her to her feet. Hermione took it reluctantly as she added, "A true Black never shows shame or embarrassment, especially when we have nothing to be ashamed _of_."

Sirius smirked, and added, presumably in case his earlier leering had not been sufficiently clear: "And you _definitely_ have nothing to be ashamed of."

"Thank you, Sirius," Hermione said, as drily as she could manage, resisting the urge to attempt to cover herself with her hands (again). "Is that it? Are we done, now?"

The elder witch smiled. "Almost." She summoned an air of seriousness, all amusement falling from her features as she proclaimed, with all the ceremony that had been lacking in her initial invocation: "I name you, my daughter, Maia Ankaa: phoenix-child, out of time, rising from the ashes of one life, reborn to the next; true scion of the Eternal House, the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Daughter of Bellatrix Druella, daughter of Black. Know these names, for they are yours, yours by right of blood and magic. Maia Ankaa, my daughter, be named." She took Hermione's face between her hands and laid a kiss upon her brow, a wave of magic crashing through the girl from the point of contact. "Before the Dark Powers and the stars above, as it is witnessed by Magic, so mote it be."

Sirius echoed her, then grinned. "So," he added, drawing the word out to three times its normal length. "Welcome to the family, Cousin Maia."

She just rolled her eyes, as did Bellatrix. "Can I get dressed now?" she demanded, still exhausted, despite the Family magic having overcome her pain.

Bellatrix nodded regally, conjuring a plain black robe for her and _recalling_ her own clothes, which appeared on her body as though they had never gone. "You are dismissed from the ritual this evening. Sirius, I presume you had no intention to attend?"

"You presume correctly," he scowled.

The elder witch sighed. "Well, renewed vows or no, you are still a member of this family. I trust I can count on you to show your cousin to appropriate accommodations?"

The wizard nodded stiffly. "She can stay at ours."

"Very well. I shall have Narcissa come tomorrow to see Maia suitably attired as befits a Daughter of Black. Maia: dinner, tomorrow, Ancient House, full dress robes. Tell Narcissa, she'll ensure you're turned out presentably." She cocked her head to the side slightly, as though listening to something the others couldn't hear for a moment before adding. "Siri… For the sake of balance, I suppose I do owe you a boon for your actions today. Think about it. Let me know before you go back to Hogwarts, and if it's reasonable, I'll make it happen."

Hermione wished she had a camera, because the look of shock on Sirius' face was stunning. He _gaped_. And then after a moment said, "I don't need to think about it. No more rituals, no more dark magic."

Bellatrix glared, the short-lived cooperation they had managed for the sake of the ritual apparently over. "I said _reasonable,_ Siri."

"What? No, not _you_ – me. Make Mother and Pater Arcturus back off and stop trying to force me to be their perfect little heir. You _know_ I can't do it. Stop trying to recruit me for the Cause. And no more Unforgivables. Either treat me like a real cousin, or stop pretending we're still family."

His elder cousin rolled her eyes. "Of course we're still family. But you have to understand, Sirius, this family has done worse to me than it ever did to you. I have other responsibilities now beyond the family, other loyalties I hold above the House, and I will _not_ allow you to question or insult them."

Hermione glared at the hypocrisy of forcing her to swear loyalty to the House of Black above all others when Bellatrix herself freely admitted that being a Death Eater meant more to her, but neither cousin paid her any attention.

"The truth isn't an insult," the boy insisted stubbornly. "It's crazy, what you're trying to do, what _he's_ trying to do! And it's stupid for Regulus to follow you into that insanity."

Bellatrix very obviously ground her teeth. "Regardless of your opinion on the matter, the war will continue, Sirius. But if you keep your opinions to yourself in front of me and treat _my_ Lord with the same respect you afford any _other_ lord on the _rare_ occasion you come into his presence, I will refrain from punishing you for those opinions, regardless of what you say _outside_ of my presence or his."

Sirius ran his hands through his hair, tugging at it in frustration. "And the rest of it? The recruitment? And Mother?"

"Yes, yes, fine," the elder witch waved an irritated hand, as though clearing the air between them. "I'll convince my Lord you're a lost cause."

"And Mother?" the young wizard demanded.

"You're not seven anymore, Sirius," Bellatrix pointed out, as though he was being particularly slow. "There is no reason whatsoever for me to fight that particular battle for you."

The boy looked incredibly taken aback. "What are you…?"

"Don't be dim, Siri. Hex her fucking face off if that's what it takes to make her back down. Fuck, if you want to do for her like I did for Cygnus, I'll help you cover it up. But I won't do it for you. You're a _grown wizard_ and you're a _Black_. Either you respect her enough to conform to her wishes, despite your… _issues_ with dark magic, or you don't – in which case I see no reason you should not be capable of standing up for yourself."

The boy was dumbstruck: "But – I –"

"Truly, Siri? It's not as though Arcturus would punish you for it – if anything, he'd be pleased to see a bit of active resistance out of you instead of this passive Hufflepuff dragon-shite. Might even confirm you're not as much of a wasted heir as he thinks you are."

"But I don't _want_ to be the Heir!"

"Don't be a bloody idiot. You're sixteen, Sirius. It's time to stop acting like a spoilt child!"

The boy stuttered for a moment before he managed to spit out: " _Fine_."

Bellatrix grinned. "Good. Now, if that's all, we are now _very_ late for dinner. I recommend you two just head back to Grimmauld. I'll deal with Arcturus. Maia, I'll see you tomorrow. Siri… do come visit at some point before the end of the holidays. A Tuesday or Thursday evening would be ideal."

"Why?" he asked warily.

She rolled her eyes. "Because those are the evenings my Lord is guaranteed to be otherwise occupied, and the less time the two of you spend in the same room, the better."

"No, I mean –" Sirius sighed. "You know what, no, whatever. Tuesday next. Just get it over with, whatever it is."

"Oh! I just think we need to have a talk regarding the rights and responsibilities of the Head of House Black. You seem to be under the impression that said position is not to be coveted regardless of one's opinion on current House policies, and that is simply _not_ the case." Sirius gaped at her for the second time in a matter of minutes. "Ta for now, then," she winked, disapparating with a small pop and an even smaller wave.

The two teens stood, staring silently at the spot from which she had disappeared for a long moment before Hermione, in an attempt to both lighten the mood and address the hollowness in her stomach, asked the least-serious question that came to mind: "I don't know about you, but I'm bloody starving. Fancy muggle take-away?"


	46. What Happened at Hogwarts Summary

A canon-compliant between-the-lines and behind-the-scenes look at the Deathly Hallows, told from the perspective of Ginny Weasley and Severus Snape. Main characters: Gin, Luna, Neville, Snape. No pairings. Gin has taken the lessons Tom Riddle taught her to heart, Luna is crazy like a fox, Neville is just starting to come into his own, and Snape is… Snape.

Luna is coordinating the resistance with Snape; the spymaster to his spy. Ginny is the Phoenix, the visible symbol of resistance and the Death Eaters at Hogwarts make a living martyr of her. Neville is the Paladin, the foundation of the resistance, the leader children learn to follow to survive.

Really, knowing that Luna is in control of these shenanigans – or at least as in control as it is possible for anyone to be said to be – should tell you everything you need to know about the story.

This story can easily be considered a prologue for Nineteen Years Before, and the dynamic between Snape and Luna in Dreams of Hades is compliant with this story as well.


	47. What Happened at Hogwarts

Sunday, 31 August 1997

It started on the train.

Or maybe it started when the Death Eaters stormed Bill's wedding, or when Harry Potter port-keyed through their wards days before, or when Ginny and her brothers eavesdropped on their first Order meeting, or when Voldemort came back, or way back in 1992, when a book asked 'Who are you?' and she responded.

But something did change, on the train.

Ginny, for the first time she could recall, was on time to catch it – even _early_. After the attack on the wedding, the Burrow had gone from far-too-full to far-too-empty in a matter of hours: Ron, Harry, and Hermione had disappeared in the confusion; Fred and George returned to the little flat over their shop as soon as the 'Aurors' finished questioning everybody (and verifying 'Ron's' 'spattergroit'); and Charlie and the Delacours had had to catch their port-keys back to Romania and France. Bill and Fleur had stuck around for a bit, helping to clean up and set things to rights, but then Fleur had insisted, with a hint of black humor that made Ginny like her a bit more, that they go and enjoy their wedding night: "We cannot allow a silly thing like zis leetle war to get in zee way of living our lives, oui?"

Ginny had been left in her tattered golden bridesmaid's dress with her exhausted parents in the much-battered Burrow, trying to think of where they ought to go to lie low: no one had died, but many of her cousins had been taken to St. Mungo's, and the wards on the property had been broken. They eventually settled on Aunt Muriel's. The awful woman was an Order sympathizer, if not a fighter at her age, and it wasn't as though she had many friends to give them away.

A week later, defenses at least minimally repaired, they had returned to the Burrow. Ginny, at least, couldn't help but feel that it was no longer quite the same _home_ she had grown up in, defiled as it had been by the Death Eaters. Some things stayed the same, like her mother's fussing about and her father's long hours at work, but an ominous air closed in around them as law after law was passed, restricting movements in and out of the country, defining muggleborns as non-citizens and then criminals, and perhaps most terrifying of all, at least for Ginny, the dissolution of the Hogwarts Treaty.

Her parents didn't seem to realize, but she was sure this could mean only one thing: hostages.

Her fears were only confirmed when Hogwarts attendance was made mandatory, and they received the news that _Dumbledore's murderer_ was to be made Headmaster in his stead. Still, her father thought he would do the most good for the Order at the ministry, so they couldn't go on the run – her parents at the very least had to be seen to be cooperating. So she was at King's Cross on the appointed day, early for the first time in her life.

She took the compartment at the very back of the train, the one that had become the Golden Trio's, somewhere along the line. Luna joined her a few minutes later, with a sunny smile that belied their situation. When Ginny went to cast an anti-eavesdropping spell on the door, she stopped her.

"We're still waiting for the Paladin," she explained nonsensically.

"Who?"

"The knight-champion, who will lead us in the coming war." She pulled a Quibbler from her bag and pulled her feet up on her bench.

"D'you mean Harry? He's not coming back – he's on a mission. I don't know what – Hermione's damnably good with her secrecy charms. But he's been gone for weeks already. And why aren't you wearing any shoes?"

Luna looked at her feet in surprise and cast an illusion of boots over them. "The Nargles can't steal what they can't find. And no, not Harry, he's the Chosen One. He must go on his Quest, and the Paladin must protect the Castle. It is written."

"Where is it written?" Talking to Luna was always an exercise in patience.

"Page three," the blonde said, tossing her another copy of the Quibbler. It looked, Ginny thought, rather more serious than the usual Lovegood fare.

"'Wrackspurts take hold of Ministry: Latest list of affected officials, page…' what is this symbol? Leo?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "'Rotfang Conspiracy Gaining Ground, page Fehu; Heliopaths on the Rampage – Prophet Under Attack, page one; Lost and Found, page thirteen'" she hesitated. "Luna, is there supposed to be more to this issue?"

"No. Thirteen is the seventh page. It's numerologically advantageous, and the Lost Souls need all the help they can get."

"See, this is the reason no one reads the Quibbler!"

Luna rolled her eyes. "You know, Ginevra, your parents weren't the only ones who lived through the seventies. When the time comes, people will read it, and until then, daddy will be underestimated by Peter Pan, just the way he likes it."

Before Ginny could assemble a response to _that_ statement, there was a tentative knock on the door.

"You're late," Luna called, and Neville stumbled in.

"A wizard is never late, Luna," he smiled weakly. "And anyway, it's still a quarter of. Plenty of time."

Luna ignored his words and passed him her magazine. "You may cast your spells now, Ginevra."

"Wait – Neville's the Paladin?"

"What paladin? Like the knights of Charlemagne?"

"Page three."

Neville shoved his trunk into the rack and started flipping through the pages. "The third page? The one numbered 'B'?"

"No, the one numbered 'three.' After one, Fehu, and B, and before Leo, Dzelo and thirteen."

Ginny focused on casting anti-eavesdropping spells, rather than trying to figure out the twisted Lovegood thought processes behind the page numbers.

"'Help wanted,'" Neville read out, "'Positions Filled since Last Publication: Chosen One: Harry Potter; Death Eater Liaison to the Minister: Pius Thicknesse; Head Heliopath: Barnabas Cuffe; Headmaster, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry: Severus Snape; Head of the Muggleborn Registration Committee: Dolores Umbridge; Minister of Magic: Rufus Scrimgour; Professor, Defense Against the Dark Arts 1997-1998, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry: Amycus Carrow; Professor, Muggle Studies 1997-1998, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry: Alecto Carrow; Undesirable Number One: Harry Potter. No additional applications will be taken.

"'Available Positions: Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (anticipated). Position requires flexible moral standards and a strong sense of self-preservation. No Hufflepuffs or Gryffindors need apply. Opening anticipated by the end of the year. Please send CV and Letter of Intent to Pius Thicknesse, Death Eater Liaison to the Minister.

"'Head of the Order of the Phoenix. Position involves advising resistance movement and assisting in vigilante activities. Fondness for lemon drops preferred, but not required. Only those who already know whom to contact are encouraged to apply.'"

Ginny winced. It was still too soon for that one, especially since Mad Eye had gone, too.

"'Knight Bus Conductor. No experience required, though it is preferred that applicants at least have ridden on the Bus before, as it can be quite a shock the first time, and the last thing we need is conductors losing their lunches all over the customers, innit? Fair pay, no benefits. Send letter of intent to Ernie Prang, Head Driver.

"'Paladin of Hogwarts. Duties include – protecting the school from outside influences; preserving the spirit of the Charter and the Treaty; advising the student body on proper conduct; and embodying the virtues of all four Founders. Those with conflicts of interest need not apply. Position currently open. Application must be made in deed, not word, and will be judged by the Sorting Hat at its discretion."

Ginny would have stopped there, to puzzle through how the position apparently applied to Neville, but he didn't, moving on to the next, far more amusing 'job posting': "'Professor, Defense Against the Dark Arts 1998-1999, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Honestly you will be lucky if you don't die. Requirements have been loosened: now only required to be willing to sign the legal release – breathing optional. Headmaster willing to apply for work visa on behalf of vampire applicants, should they be otherwise best suited for the position. Please send CV and Letter of Intent to Headmaster Severus Snape.'"

That one made all three of them smile slightly, as did the one that followed.

"'Third Lieutenant to the Dark Lord. Duties include: hosting the Dark Lord and Death Eater Revels; contributing financially to the Cause; leading raids and missions at the discretion of the Dark Lord. Must be quick-thinking and able to deal with the responsibility for unexpected setbacks. Bonuses and perks dependent on successes. Warning: high rate of turn-over, occasionally terminal. Applications open to all, though those with experience will be given priority. Send CV and Letter of Intent to Bellatrix Druella Lestrange nee Black, the Dark Lord's Most Faithful, at Malfoy Manor.

"'Undesirable Number Two. Duties include: infuriating and/or foiling ministry officials at every turn; breaking the laws of Magical Britain; and/or otherwise making a public nuisance of oneself. Position currently open. Application must be made in deed, not word, and will be judged by consensus of Ministry Personnel, the final decision to be made by the Head of the DMLE, in conjunction with the Death Eater Liaison to the Minister.'"

Ginny was laughing now, slightly hysterically.

"Blimey, Luna," Neville said, passing the magazine back to the blonde. "Your dad's going to be murdered in his sleep."

Luna looked unconcerned. "Of course he won't. They all think he's mad. He's been under cover longer than Professor Phobetor. No respectable wizard reads the Quibbler for anything but a laugh, you know. And if you read it carefully, he hasn't actually declared himself for one side or the other."

"No," Ginny snorted. "He's just bound to piss off everyone equally."

"That's how you can tell a good reporter is impartial – by the diversity of his enemies," she smirked. _Smirked_. Luna Lovegood didn't _smirk_! Or at least she didn't _used_ to, Ginny noted, as the blonde looked over herself and Neville, rather more sharply than usual. "Hmm… Since Harry and Hermione aren't here, you should do it, Neville."

"Erm… do what?"

"Is this the Paladin thing again?"

"Yes, and call the meeting to order."

"What meeting?"

"Oh, fine, I'll do it," Luna rolled her eyes. "I hereby call this meeting of Dumbledore's Army to order."

Ginny's jaw dropped open, but it was Neville who objected.

"Dumbledore's Army has been decommissioned, Luna."

"We're un-decommissioning it," was the uncharacteristically firm response.

"Is that what all this Paladin stuff is about?" Ginny asked, still confused.

"Of course."

"Wait – you want _me_ to be this… this Paladin, and lead the DA? Why? I'm not – I'm not good at Defense, or – or –"

"You don't need to be," Luna informed him bluntly. "The left-over potential of a Destiny barely avoided clings to you, Neville. And you're good with people in a way Ginevra and I aren't."

"Hey!" Ginny thought she was plenty good with people. She had come a long way in the past three years.

"You're fire, Ginevra. Neville's earth. You're inspiring. He's genuine. Men would follow you into hell in a blaze of glory, but frightened children will learn to survive under his leadership. You each have your part to play. And you're not good with people. You're just good at pretending."

"What do you mean I have a Destiny clinging to me?" Neville interrupted Ginny's snippy reply.

"A destiny _narrowly avoided_. Once upon a time there was a prophecy, now lost forever, except if one was to go ask Trelawney in exchange for a bottle of sherry. The Chessmaster really should have obliviated her after he showed her the memory. But la – he chose two, and the Thief chose one, and left the other to be the shield as he forged the sword against himself."

"In _English?_ " Ginny asked pointedly.

Luna smiled serenely. " _Parce que Harry Potter est l'Choisi, Neville Longbottom doit être le Paladin_."

"Are you… are you a Seer, Luna?" Neville asked hesitantly.

"I don't have the Gift, but that doesn't mean I can't See."

Ginny snorted. She had asked the same question when they were six, and had been given the same answer. There had never been _any_ doubt that Luna would go to Ravenclaw with her riddles and obfuscation. "She's an oracle, Nev, not a prophet," she explained, as Mrs. Lovegood had once done for her.

"And just as well," Luna shrugged. "No one ever believed Cassandra."

"You do a _great_ job at convincing everyone not to listen to you, anyway, so I hardly see that it matters."

"Those who need to hear will hear. What do I care if the rest haven't ears to listen?"

Ginny gave up. "So Neville's the leader, this Paladin of yours. What are our roles?"

The dreamy smile vanished, shifting into one with far more teeth and a threat behind it. "You, Ginevra Phyllis, will be the Phoenix, and I will be MI7."

"MI7?" Neville asked.

"The magical branch of the Intelligence Service," Luna explained. "They report on Department M to Mycroft Holmes and the government of the Crown… which are oftentimes the same thing."

"Wh-?"

Ginny kicked the seventh-year before he could ask whatever tangent-inspiring question he had in mind. "Don't ask if you value your sanity. So Luna's Intelligence, which makes a strange sort of sense, as everything she says is in some sort of code _anyway_ , and Neville's the Paladin and our virtuous leader or whatever. What do I do?"

"What does a phoenix do, Ginevra?"

"Um…"

"It lives and dies and lives again," Luna explained patiently. "It is loud and bright and attracts all the attention as a glorious symbol of the Light incarnate. It burns and falls and rises up brighter than before. Neville will organize the defense. You will lead the offence."

Ginny stared at her oldest friend in abject horror. "You want me to… _what?_ Be some kind of a martyr?"

Luna looked more certain than Ginny had ever seen her. "Amycus and Alecto Carrow are Death Eaters of the worst sort. They are _sadists_ , Ginevra. The only worse fate for Hogwarts would be if the Blackheart was made Headmistress. You _are already_ the Phoenix, come back to life after first year, burning brighter against the darkness than you did before. I _know_ you. You will not be able to stand by and watch Death Eaters torture first-years while there is still breath in your body. What I want doesn't matter."

"You're mad! I'm going to keep my head down, play the good little hostage and pray Harry finishes his mission before the Death Eaters decide to kill my whole family!"

"No, you're not," the oracle replied, in the calmly fatalistic tone she did so well, as if she knew everything, and nothing Ginny could do would possibly change it. Then she smiled. "But I won't say I told you so." And she laughed.

Ginny's heart sank. Somehow she had a feeling that this year would be even worse than she had expected.

…

Severus Snape sat in the Headmaster's office, awaiting the arrival of the train and the arrival of his new Death Eater 'staff members,' fuming.

He hated this room.

If possible, he hated it even more now than he had when it had been occupied by Dumbledore, full of chiming, whirring cacophony and light and lemon drops. The light was still there, in the airy tower office, but the rest had gone.

He had never realized, before, but the presence of a hundred or more eyes, staring down from the walls, was a major detriment to his focus.

Like sitting before the Wizengamot… all the bloody time.

At least Dumbledore's portrait had awoken and explained the situation to the others before he became tempted to set fiendfire to the lot of them, and damn the consequences.

"Don't worry, my boy!" that painting said jovially, as though he could legilimize Severus from beyond the grave. "The beginning of one's first term is always a bit nerve-wracking, but I'm certain you shall do fine."

"Shut _up_ , you insufferable old muggle-lover," Phineas Nigellus Black drawled from his own portrait. "Severus, you ought to have killed him before he became so obnoxiously senile."

This pronouncement caused an uproar from the others, many of whom still held a certain fondness for the Headmaster of the last four decades. Dilys Derwent, in particular, was rather shrill.

Severus grabbed the Sorting Hat unceremoniously by the tip, and stalked out of the circular space. Whichever idiot started the tradition of keeping his predecessors' portraits near to hand, he decided, must have been a masochist.

He made his way to his favorite tower instead – the Scryer's Tower, with the silencing charms, and the medieval aesthetic, with no enchantments other than the construction and protection wards to befuddle the senses. It was less comfortable than most of the castle – no heating or air circulation enchantments, no torches, no cushioning on the plain wooden benches, no cleaning and pest-repelling charms. There was no better place in the castle to clear one's head. And he feared that, this year, he would need every ounce of clarity he could muster.

"So it has come to this," the Hat said softly, whispering aloud from its perch on his head.

Severus sighed. "So it appears."

"I warned Dumbledore, you know. I warned him, but he always was too headstrong by half to listen to good advice when it was freely offered."

Severus snorted softly. "You know they say that Dumbledore was the only wizard the Dark Lord feared?" The hat hummed its agreement. "I suspect it was rather the opposite."

"Oh?"

"The Dark Lord always enjoyed tweaking Dumbledore's nose. Half this war was meant to prove to him that he was never as infallible as he thought. Dumbledore, though… He spoke of it like a chess game, like the Dark Lord was the only other person in the world who was anything other than a pawn to be moved at his will. And that terrified him. The Dark Lord fought hard to break free of Dumbledore's control – to gain enough power that he need not bow before the Defeater of Grindelwald. I would rather have liked to see a world where the elder had not been so threatened by the younger… where he had taken him under his wing that first day, rather than made an enemy, clumsily and for life…"

"You know of that?" The Hat sounded surprised.

"The Old Goat had few secrets left from me in the end." The one advantage he had always had over Dumbledore and the Dark Lord alike was the fact that he had honed his natural talent for legilimency to a keen blade. Dumbledore had done his best with no raw talent for the subject, but had never attained true mastery of either Occlumency or Legilimency. The Dark Lord, like Severus, was a natural, but whatever Lily had done to him back in '78 had shattered his sense of proportion and subtlety. He had seen memories from the older Death Eaters, of a once-great master of the arts, but that man was gone by the time Severus grew near enough to the inner circle that he might have seen him. "I, unlike him, did not waste our thirteen-year ceasefire manipulating children and rotting my brain with muggle sweets."

The Hat made a disgruntled noise. "So all Albus' worries about keeping information from you…?"

"It certainly would have helped had he revealed certain things in a more timely manner. It took time to ferret out new secrets, which could have been more efficiently devoted to researching the relevant topics, had he but confided in anyone who had any depth of knowledge of the Dark. And he began keeping memories in pensieve vials after the Dark Lord's return to foil further inquiries. But for the most part, I have known, and kept the knowledge buried, acting as though I knew nothing more than my two 'masters' saw fit to tell me."

Severus had played a long game, putting on a show for all as a short-tempered, cruel, dark wizard. Not that he wasn't cruel or dark (or _Dark_ ), but did they truly think that any successful spy could possibly be so quick to anger and 'thoughtlessly' malicious as he pretended? Spies did not ( _could_ not) indulge in red-faced, spitting-angry temper-tantrums at the provocation of their masters, much less _schoolchildren_ , and he had been as much a spy during the interbellum as he had been since the war had returned. No, his hatred and rage had been compressed to a cold, calculating determination under layers of subterfuge and false emotions, his desire to see _both_ of his masters destroyed fueling his stubborn persistence and his infiltration of both camps – and the minds of those with power at the center of each.

How ironic was it that the Dark Lord had been more willing to delegate information and power than the Leader of the Light?

The tattered old Hat harrumphed. "What will you do now, then?"

"What can I do, but fight a Slytherin's war? The safety of all our children is now in my hands, not just the Snakes, and there is nothing for it but to give ground as slowly as possible, in the hopes that the plans set in motion before his death will bear fruit before the war is entirely lost."

If the war _was_ entirely lost, well… there were back-up plans, engineered by Severus, rather than Dumbledore, all of them rather more ruthless and violent than the old man would have accepted, but well-suited to a world ruled by the Dark. After all, Severus was bound to complete the task Dumbledore had set him, ridding the world of the Dark Lord's influence (a mission he would have undertaken anyway, as revenge for Lily's death and to free himself from slavery to a madman), but now that the Old Goat was dead, he could not quibble and limit the methods Severus chose to accomplish said task.

"The children will not make it easy for you."

"Children never know what is best for them," Severus sighed. "It is just as well. Too much cooperation would appear… suspicious."

The Hat chuckled darkly. "I do think Slytherin would have been happy to claim you as an Heir, in spirit, if not in blood, Severus Snape. I never doubted your sorting, you know."

"Nor have I, Hat. Nor have I."

…

If there was a single student who had managed to delude themselves into thinking that all was still well within Magical Britain, Ginny was willing to bet that their return to Hogwarts corrected that belief at once.

The only table in the Great Hall apparently unaffected by the new laws, the ones banning Muggleborns from a proper education, making them all criminals on the run, was Slytherin. Gryffindor had lost nearly a third of every class, sixth year and down. Sam and Helen were missing from among her own dorm-mates; Colin, Danny, and Zach from the sixth-year boys. Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw faces, familiar from classes, were gone, too: Greg Roberts and Jen Walsh, Gita Kaur and the Reynolds twins. And of course Hermione, the most famous muggleborn in the school, was gone, along with Harry and Ron. Ginny scanned the long, polished table, feeling very _alone_ as she truly realized that she had become the Last Weasley at Hogwarts a whole year earlier than expected.

The Great Hall itself looked like it always did at the Welcome Feast, filled with floating candles, but Severus Snape was seated at the center of the Head Table instead of Albus Dumbledore, and there were two new 'professors' who were clearly Death Eaters. Even if Luna hadn't warned them, she could see it in their mean little eyes and the predatory looks they were giving the returning students. Slughorn was still, apparently, teaching potions, though he was quite obviously terrified. He had lost weight over the summer, and his complexion was almost as sickly-looking as Snape's. Grubblyplank was back, and Hagrid was nowhere to be seen. She, like all the other professors except Slughorn and the Death Eaters, was studiously avoiding looking at Snape.

 _Ha!_ Maybe they'd get lucky, and it would turn out Snape had bit off more than he could chew, killing Dumbledore and taking over.

The incoming class was at least five times larger than even than the one from Ginny's third year, and that had been the peak of the population explosion following the end of the last war. Most of them weren't first-years, either: Hogwarts was now the _only_ school in Magical Britain, and attendance was compulsory for all purebloods and halfbloods, so there were nearly three-hundred scared and confused upperclassmen from the smaller schools that had recently been disbanded across the isles, and another hundred or so haughty and furious purebloods who had clearly been pulled out of homeschooling. It looked like there were as many students standing, waiting to be sorted, as there were already seated at the long tables.

Where were they going to _put_ them all? Classes would be a _joke_ with twice as many people, or, well… one and a half times? How many muggleborns had there been in the school? They might as well just go ahead and say it: Hogwarts had become a children's prison, rather than a school.

There was no song. The tear at the brim of the Hat had opened, and it had said, loudly and clearly, "I am the Hogwarts Sorting Hat. Though I believe that the last thing we need in these troubled times is to be divided amongst ourselves, it is my purpose and my duty to determine to which of the four Houses new students are best-suited, and so I shall. Let the students come forth, and we shall see where they ought to go…" It sounded… _tired_ , as though it was dragging itself through this farce by force of will alone.

Snape stood, glowering at the assembled students, nearly all of whom were murmuring in concern and confusion. Even the year before, there had been a song, even if its message had been more or less the same as the one just spoken. "Let the sorting commence," he ordered Professor McGonagall, and she had called the first name on her list.

Even Slytherin was affected as the Sorting wore on, joined by poor-but-determined "transfer students" with clear chips on their shoulders and arrogant, formerly-homeschooled children who clearly thought themselves better than even the Death Eater Spawn that held sway over their new house. The new Gryffindors were _angry_ with the situation, clearly spoiling for a fight, and all the Badgers' claws were out as they welcomed their new members, but projected mistrust toward all outsiders. Ravenclaw garnered the fewest new students: there was, Ginny supposed, less pure and open-minded love of knowledge when the world was at war.

When it was finally done, Snape rose again, and it quickly became clear that he had no intention of feeding them until they had listened to his dry, scornful words.

"Welcome," he said, "to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. For those of you who do not know, I am Professor Severus Snape, your new Headmaster. Professor McGonagall is your Deputy Headmistress," (Professor McGonagall rose briefly and nodded to the hall,) "and Head of Gryffindor House. Professor Sprout," (she waved at her students,) "is Head of Hufflepuff House. Professor Flitwick," (Flitwick "stood" and bowed, obviously levitating himself somehow to remain visible above the table,) "is Head of Ravenclaw House. And Professor Slughorn," (who managed to make his bow seem courtly and unaffected, despite his fearful glances at Snape,) "will be returning to his one-time position as Head of Slytherin House. After the evening meal has concluded, your Heads of House will escort you back to your common rooms and discuss with you the virtues and expectations of your respective Houses."

The other Heads of House looked hardly more pleased than Slughorn at that. They doubtlessly hated Snape, whom Ginny was fairly certain they had all _taught_ , interfering in the way they ran their Houses. Professor McGonagall had never once, in all Ginny's years, given a speech on the virtues and expectations of Gryffindor, for example.

"Due to the rather… _abrupt_ nature of the recent changes to the Magical British educational system, I fear we shall be rather understaffed this term: I expect you all to do your best and be on your best behavior, regardless, and indeed _because_ that is the only way you can possibly be expected to learn anything under such circumstances."

 _Good luck with that!_ If Ginny had her way, the entire school would be taking up the banner Fred and George had carried against Umbridge and declaring all-out war on their new Death Eater wardens. It wasn't such a ridiculous thought. There were now twice as many students to fight back, including, she was sure, some of the new Slytherins, who couldn't all be happy with the new status quo, and Luna seemed to think they could do it.

"As we have so many transfer students this year, I believe I shall allow each of the professors to introduce themselves in their first lessons. However, on a previously-related note, I must inform you all that Professors Alecto and Amycus Carrow, who will be teaching Muggle Studies and Defense Against the Dark Arts, respectively, have been deputized to assist in maintaining _discipline_ amongst the student body in these… troubled times."

Translation: Step out of line and the Death Eaters will torture you, and I won't do anything to stop them.

"They will doubtless be at least slightly more effective in this role than an elderly squib." Now that he mentioned it, what _had_ happened to Filch? He wasn't lurking in the corners like usual. Had they killed him? "It would behoove you all to take this into account as you consider the myriad opportunities for… _mischief_ presented by the current disparity in the student-to-teacher ratio. There will be a mandatory school assembly every Saturday after dinner to address any concerns as we go forward."

Translation: I can and will put the whole school in detention if you piss me off.

"In order to allow the Professors Carrow time to fulfil all of their duties, Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons will be held half as often as they have been in the past. I know this will be a great disappointment to returning students. In the meanwhile, study groups will be formed. You will all simply have to apply yourselves a bit more outside of lessons to make up for the deficit until more instructors may be obtained. I expect older students to help younger students with their theory and casting. We must not allow standards to slip, after all, and some of you _will_ be taking your OWLs and NEWTs at the end of the year."

 _We'll show_ you _a 'study group!'_ Ginny thought, glaring venomously at him. Reduced class hours were probably the only good thing about the Carrows being in charge of 'discipline' – it would mean that many more hours to actually _learn_ something about Defense – because there was _no_ way a Death Eater was going to actually teach them to defend themselves.

"Muggle Studies is now a compulsory subject for all students, but its class periods will be similarly reduced as we determine the best method of catching everyone up to an… appropriate level. The Ministry believes it is shameful that Magical Britain allows its students to remain so ignorant of the non-magical denizens of our great state, and we must do our best to oblige them in correcting this… problem."

Ooor… maybe not, if they had to spend their extra half-class worth of free lessons in "muggle studies" – she couldn't _wait_ to see what the Death Eater bitch thought was an "appropriate" level of knowledge about muggles. What had happened to Professor Burbage?

"As always, the Forbidden Forest is so-named for a reason. If I have to write any of your parents a letter detailing how you were so stupid as to go wandering off into the middle of an acromantula colony or get yourselves shot by a centaur, I shall be most displeased. _You_ , on the other hand, will be dead.

"The Forest is the most substantial of the dangers present on Hogwarts' grounds, but new students are advised to maintain vigilance and caution" ( _'Constant vigilance!'_ Ginny thought reflexively,) "at all times: neither the school nor our shared endeavor of learning magic are entirely safe, even outside its bounds. Hazards as seemingly trivial as an ill-timed move of the staircases or an exploding cauldron can pose a danger to the unwary student.

"Prefects will be understandably overwhelmed this term, given the influx of new students, so I entreat all returning Hogwarts students to do your best to assist your new peers in avoiding the unexpected dangers posed by such a large concentration of young wizards in close quarters. It would be… most unfortunate if you failed to do so and there were any… accidents which might have been avoidable had you banded together to support each other, as housemates must."

 _Wait –_ what? Ginny couldn't help but think that she had missed something crucial, because it sounded like Slytherin, Death Eater, murderer Snape was telling them all to act like Hufflepuffs (albeit in his usual mean, vaguely threatening way). She sought out Luna's face at the Ravenclaw table, and the blonde gave her a reassuring little nod.

"I believe that concludes the beginning of term announcements, with one exception:

"This is _not_ Albus Dumbledore's Hogwarts. As many of you will now be aware, our former Headmaster has been shown, thanks to a recent exposé by an investigative journalist, to have been morally corrupt, and anyone who ever studied under him would know that he was at best neglectful of his students, and at worst a negative influence on developing young minds."

Anger swept away any confusion the sixth-year might have felt in regards to the previous warnings: how _dare_ he – the man who had _killed_ Dumbledore, _in cold blood_ – malign his memory?! And Rita Skeeter, an 'investigative journalist' – _don't make me laugh!_

"It is my intention, my very _sincere_ intention, to do everything in my power to reverse the damage Dumbledore's influence has left on this school, and return to the core principles of the Founders: dedication, perseverance, fortitude and boundless curiosity in the pursuit of knowledge."

As he spoke, the banners and ornaments in the Hall began to glow with their house colors: first Hufflepuff, then Slytherin, Gryffindor, and Ravenclaw.

Dedication, perseverance, fortitude, and curiosity.

Well, that was one way to put it.

Having 'fortitude' was, she was sure, the kindest description Snape had ever used for Gryffindors before. Being 'reckless, dunderheaded morons' was far more common, though knowing him, it held the same connotation.

Luna caught her eye as the food appeared, finally, and gave her a smile caught between hope and fear.

Ginny could sympathize with at least _one_ of those emotions, at the moment, though she would be damned if she would admit it.

…

 _Goddamnit_ , Severus thought, using the muggle curse in the privacy of his own head, simply because he could, and it was that kind of day. The speech had stirred the already-angry students up even more, and now all of his staff were actively upset with him as well: the Dumbledore supporters for his calling the immoral old bastard an immoral old bastard (not that all of Skeeter's rubbish book was true, but he had himself pointed her toward a few key facts, so it wasn't _all_ rubbish, either); the Carrows for limiting their influence on the students through mandatory classes (though doubtless they would have more than their share of contact with them in detentions); the Heads of House for demanding that they do their powers-bedamned _jobs_ , as they had not for at _least_ ten years; the returning students for many of the same reasons, and the new students for having been forced into this situation.

Even Aurora was furious with him for giving Slughorn his position back, rather than making her the Head of Slytherin, though it hadn't been his decision. The Board and the other Heads of House had determined that as he had held the position before, and had seniority over nearly every other professor in the school, Horace must be given the position. And then Wilkes, that obsequious fuck, had talked the Dark Lord out of allowing the Carrows or Severus himself to simply kill the fat old wanker – 'My Lord, he can help to convince more students of the wisdom of making connections within your organization – he did, after all, send you _generations_ of loyal Death Eaters, did he not?'

With Dumbledore gone, it seemed the Dark Lord no longer considered Slughorn a threat, so he was allowed to live.

It made Severus sick, to think of all the effort he had put into teaching his Snakes the fine arts of fence-sitting, equivocation and rational decision-making (with a few notable failures in recent years), going to waste in his predecessor's hands, but there was nothing he could do. At least this meant that it would be Slughorn at the mercy of his angry new students rather than Aurora: she had spent far too long cultivating a reputation of harmlessness to gain firm enough control of the house to keep them in line now, in a time of war, with a sudden influx of _nearly two-hundred_ children of all ages upsetting the careful balance of power within the House. Not that Slughorn was particularly intimidating either, but in his five decades as Head, he had seen just about everything, including several blood feuds carried into the halls of Hogwarts and the rise and fall of Grindelwald. He would handle it. And if he didn't, well, he would be a good scapegoat when all this ended, and the winning side started asking questions about why students were killing each other in the dungeons.

He didn't often have problems with emotional bleed-through – he was fairly certain legilimency would have driven him mad in his late teens if he hadn't learned to shut out the undirected thoughts and feelings non-occlumens unknowingly and habitually projected – but surrounded by nearly nine-hundred minds all directing some degree of negativity in his direction, and not a single source of support, he was getting a bloody migraine. He strengthened the shields surrounding his mind against their ire – truly the basest of occlumency forms requiring hardly any attention to maintain, but the most effective against undirected influences such as this.

It was because he had not been paying his mental defenses any attention before that he had missed a delicate but persistent mental probe, poking at the curtain wall. It wasn't trying to break through, he thought, only looking to gain his attention – not unlike an owl tapping at a window to be let in. There was something odd about the contact, though. It was not a constant pattern and the more he focused on it, the more he realized that there was variation in the _type_ of contact, as well: a sharp _prod_ , and a gentler, more sustained _brush_ across his shields.

 _Prod._ Pause _. Prod. Prod. Brush._ Pause _. Brush. Prod._ Pause _. Prod. Brush._ A long pause, easily three times as long as the previous. _Prod. Prod. Prod._ Pause _. Brush. Brush. Brush._ Pause _. Prod. Prod. Prod._ Then another long pause. _Prod. Brush. Prod. Prod._ Pause _. Prod. Prod. Brush._ Pause _. Brush. Prod._ Pause _. Prod. Brush._

The pattern was repeating.

It was obviously some sort of attempt at communication, though he couldn't imagine by whom, and he wasn't about to engage an unknown mind in an Occlumency battle (or even straightforward telepathic communication) in the middle of the Great Hall. Instead he peered around, trying to unobtrusively determine who could possibly be behind the probe.

None of the professors. There were better methods of communication available, and they could easily have found a way to engage him during the pre-feast staff meeting, had they so desired. Not Zabini: he was deep in conversation with Nott and Greengrass. Not Bones, for she was pointedly avoiding his gaze. Higgs and Rowle were looking in his direction, but they had no reason to try to contact him via clumsy legilimency – their fathers were Death Eaters; if they wanted to speak to him, all they had to do was come to his bloody office. Several of the new students were glaring at him, but none of them should have any reason to suspect his skill with the mind arts. Grey? Perhaps. He hadn't thought the heir to that particular house had been learning this particular skill (and he did keep tabs on that), but the probe was not so powerful – he could have just started… but no, he turned away, even as Severus watched.

He let his gaze drift down the Ravenclaw table. There were no other likely candidates there – except… _Lovegood_. She had her usual, dreamy-eyed expression firmly in place, but she was staring unblinkingly at _him_ , rather than one of her fellow students.

He caught her eye, and the pattern changed.

 _Prod-prod-prod-prod. Prod. Prod-brush-prod-prod. Prod-brush-prod-prod. Brush-brush-brush._

It stopped. She closed her eyes, then opened them slightly wider than usual – an invitation to legilimency if ever he had seen one.

He glared at her.

Generally speaking, Severus had a policy against using legilimency on students, especially in public, when he hadn't even the faintest hint of just cause, but she started up the seemingly-random poking again ( _prod-brush-brush prod-prod-prod-prod prod-brush brush_ ) and it was really quite irritating now that he was aware of it. Enough so that he decided to make an exception, just this once.

He opened a connection between their minds with the silent, wandless expression of will which came so naturally to him, and pushed a coherent thought across to her: _What do you_ want _, Miss Lovegood?_

Her relief was nearly palpable, though she clearly had no experience actually speaking telepathically. Her reply took the form of several dozen disjointed images and memories, intermixed with slowly-'translated,' audiated words:

[whispers in the darkness, the passing of messages, a sense of understanding and collusion between two unspecified forces] **_An alliance_** _._

[Dumbledore's broken form at the base of the Tower; the Magician reversed, her own hand turning the card face-down] **_The Chessmaster is gone._**

[a timeline of the Dark Lord's activities over the past year, confusion, fear, insanity; the Devil over Death; a sense of terrible intemperance; _'Delendo Est_ , _'_ the truly disturbing magical painting of Destruction and Chaos torturing the Dark Lord Tyrannous into insanity, and her horror at seeing for the first time] **_And the Thief is mad_** _._

[his own face, sneering at a classroom; himself in an imagined scene, dressed in motley, mocking a game of chess between Dumbledore and the Dark Lord; caught between two mirrors and endless reflections, each one slightly changed, until, in the distance, he was nothing but a faceless, dark-haired blur; a fuzzy memory of a female voice – perhaps not human – whispering ' _contradiction'_ ] _ **You are a creature of Deception.**_

[another conjured scene, of Death Eaters on a stage, casting 'unforgivables' with muggle smoke and mirrors, (over) acting death scenes, and himself sneaking off-stage before the scene change, laying aside his mask and pulling on his teaching robes before striding into Act II.] **_Your façade is the only thing I know for certain is untrue._**

[a page from a medieval grimoire detailing oaths of loyalty, fidelity, and homage; her father's voice explaining: 'if the Lord forsakes his followers, then the followers are honor bound to forsake their Lord in turn…'; himself, bloodied and barely-conscious, staggering back to the Castle after re-pledging his 'loyalty' that first night, her voice saying, ' _Rest now, Professor Phobetor_ ,' as she cast a sleeping charm on him, and levitated him to the Castle; Potter's voice: ' _He killed Dumbledore – he killed him – Snape. He's chosen his side!'_ ] _ **Ergo your loyalty is not to the Thief.**_

[an echo of his words from an hour before: ' _take this into account as you consider the myriad opportunities for_ … mischief.']

[barren plains, scorched by spellfire, filled with death and corruption (Was that Sierra Leone? _When was Lovegood in Sierra Leone?!_ ); the Dark Lord seated on a throne of skulls, a great serpent coiling around him, and people, at his feet, bowing, dressed all in black, their faces thin and tortured beneath their cowls] **_There is no future if he is victorious in the end._**

[a memory of a musical, children on a barricade, a snatch of song] **_I speak for the rebellious children._**

[the faces of Potter, Weasley, and Granger, superimposed on an image of Fawkes, a chess castle, and a book – the faces faded away and the remaining images shifted, the phoenix bursting into flame and the castle transforming to a knight as the book became a scrying-glass] **_For the Paladin and the Phoenix._**

[Dumbledore's Army, training fiercely in what must be the Room of Requirement, covered by the flickering, superimposed faces of hundreds of students, both new and old, their expressions angry and scared, but undaunted] **_And those who will not bow before the Thief and his agents._**

[another echo of his words: _'apply yourselves a bit more outside of lessons to make up for the deficit' 'maintain vigilance and caution' 'assist your new peers in avoiding the unexpected dangers'_ ; the predatory expressions worn by the Carrow twins; a fierce determination to keep them away from the little ones, the ones whose hands she remembered shaking as they were Sorted] **_Whom you are also now bound to protect_** _._

 ** _If we_** [her friends, her father, the Quibbler, her house, the children, an open field and clear skies and a sense of freedom] **_are to survive this war_** [the Ministry, the Prophet building, Azkaban; a quote, from a muggle film in a theater: ' _We can rebuild him. We have the technology. We can make him better than he was…'_ ; the same sense of collusion and understanding she had led with, but this time, instead of indistinct whispers in the darkness, it was paired with a meeting she had attended when she was very small, between her father and one of his suppliers, a business deal, held in the open; certainty and uncertainty mixed together to form an uncomfortable anxiety demanding action] _ **we shall need to cooperate, I think.**_

Severus hesitated. He could, he suspected, spend days analyzing those particular memories and images, beginning with the fact that she had not included herself or himself in the sense of 'we' who would survive the war, ending with an examination of exactly how she managed to return him to his quarters back in 1995 (for he had woken up there, and assumed he managed to drag himself there in his post-torture fugue-state), and definitely including questioning what madman had allowed a schoolgirl into the Restricted Vault of the Etrurian Archives somewhere along the way, but none of that was terribly important _now._

 _Why would you trust me?_ he sent back. _You are taking an awfully large risk; all Death Eaters are sworn to the Dark Lord until death and beyond._

Her response was rather brief and lacked any sort of audiated response: another muggle film quote: _'come on in, the water's fine!'_ as she opened her eyes even wider.

He was slightly tempted to wait and see exactly how far she could bug them out, but unfortunately his curiosity about her sudden desire to form an alliance, and the temptation to gather whatever information she might hold regarding the formation of a student rebellion (Already. Less than twelve hours into the year. _Three_ , if you didn't count their time on the train. Bloody buggering hellfire!) won out.

He divided his attention and slipped into her mind, that part of his consciousness no longer seeing her with his eyes, but _focusing/feeling/sensing/kenning_ her thoughts and her senses with his magic. He heard a new Ravenclaw ask his neighbor if she was okay, and the neighbor say, "It's just Looney. She's always like that."

He felt her face tighten as she smiled pleasantly, still not looking away from him, across the room. "Headmaster Snape seems to be afflicted by a Meddling Flibbertigibbet," she explained absently.

"A what, now?" the new Eaglet asked.

" _Don't_ ask," he was advised.

He turned inward, seeking her consciousness, rather than her senses. _A Meddling Flibbertigibbet, Miss Lovegood?_

 _Don't pretend you don't think it appropriate_ , she thought back, the "words" drifting to him on an idle breeze.

He declined to respond, advising her instead that she needn't maintain eye-contact any longer if she preferred not to: in truth, eye-contact was as much a focus-crutch as a wand – she was not fighting him, so there was little need for any external focus once the connection was firmly established.

She continued staring anyway, with a semi-coherent thought along the lines that she had nothing better to do at the moment anyway.

It was surprisingly difficult to maintain his own avatar within her mind. She seemed to have taken the term 'air-head' to heart, modeling her thoughts as currents and movement in otherwise empty space, as far as he could perceive. Memories were light from nowhere, and shadows cast by nothing, affected by the movement of thoughts, drifting along curves and forming constantly shifting shapes that he vaguely recognized from NEWT Arithmancy ( _gods and powers he hated Arithmancy_ ). He suspected that in order to pin down the organization and meaning behind them would require a third or seventh or ninth derivative of the pattern, which was in itself more than sufficient deterrence for most legilimensers, even disregarding the fact that the medium was so completely _foreign_.

 _Seventh_ , she thought at him, and a wave of amusement enveloped him. _And I find it highly ironic that such a water person thinks air too foreign – both are fluid, after all. Just_ relax _, why don't you?_

 _It's not the air that's strange, it's the_ light _,_ he pointed out techily. And he had maintained an avatar because it was _rude_ to be too unobtrusive when one was an invited guest. Nevertheless, he allowed his humanoid form to dissolve into a cloud – an easy half-state between his own mindscape and hers.

 _That's much better,_ she thought. _The memory-structures aren't_ light _, though – they're aetheric whirlpools._

 _Because that's a far more common medium,_ he snarked, and was met by another wave of amusement, this one flowing _through_ him, like a rather warm, delightful ghost. He could see it now, though, how memories could be encapsulated in whirlpools, shifting associations as they moved from one locale to the next and the aether-constructs flowed through their own circuits, no doubt in perpetual motion as the gravity of memories pulled them in one direction or another, not unlike the way winds were created by differences in air temperature and density.

It was beautiful, in a way, and quite unlike anything he had ever seen, despite decades of experience as a legilimens.

 _Thank you,_ she thought at him. _If you're ready, I can show you why I approached you?_

He projected assent, and was immediately drawn into a whirlpool, the experience not unlike falling into a pensieve, save that his focus was already split between his own body and her mind. Examining a memory using legilimency was always a rather uncomfortable experience, because it put him into the position of the person to whom the memory belonged, aware of their thoughts and feelings in the moment, as they re-lived the memory.

The pensieve would be infinitely preferable, but it was hardly ever an option.

In this case, he was dropped immediately into a void, not entirely unlike the result of an Isolation Hex – no body, no senses, only the knowledge that he did, in fact, exist, and was (probably) dreaming.

xXx

 _That conclusion was confirmed a moment later, as a voice spoke from everywhere and nowhere, an avatar coalescing out of the darkness._

 _She was a plain young woman, no older than Miss Lovegood, round of face, with a complexion that made Severus think of Old Ireland, and reddish-brown hair to match, but her eyes spoke of inhuman origins, mirror-bright and heavy – not_ old _, per se, but he had the impression that she had been young for a_ very _long time._

 _Luna created an avatar for herself as well, and bowed before the newcomer. "My Lady Gelach," she greeted the phantasm. "How are you here?" A bolt of fear struck through the girl. She knew it to be Lammastide – her lady was far too weak now to manifest and speak under her own power alone. That she was indicated a message most urgent._

 _"Namesake child," it replied, brushing a kiss across her brow and ignoring the question. "Listen well, for time is short."_

 _Luna's avatar, somewhat younger than her physical form, nodded hesitantly._

 _"You are living in dark times, my child. For the sake of the innocent of Magical Britain, I must demand a sacrifice of you."_

 _"S-sacrifice?"_

 _The apparition nodded solemnly. "It has been decided, now, by those with more influence than I, how the end of your war must play out. It will be down to Order and Chaos, at the end, as always, but for the sake of the children caught in the crossfire between then and your now, you must leave my realm."_

 _"I… you mean…?"_

 _The goddess nodded. "As your mother once broke our covenant and promised your service in her stead, so I now do the same – though I must offer a different gift in honor of your service."_

 _Luna's avatar was crying, terror swirling incoherently through her mind._

 _"Please, my lady – why?"_

 _"There is no place for innocence in war, Moon-child," the phantom said sadly. "And I fear you shall need every bit of potential you can muster ere the end falls."_

 _"I-I understand," Luna sniffled._

 _The goddess_ bowed, _as though they were equals. "So shall it be, then."_

 _Luna, obviously taken aback, bowed in return. "I… is there anything else, Lady Gelach?"_

 _"There is. I send you back to the world not as my Dedicate, nor as my Avatar, but… as a Champion of Innocence. I cannot demand it of you by right of patronage, but I may ask –_ must _ask of you: Protect the children of Hogwarts."_

 _A hint of offended dignity challenged the sorrow and fear still lingering in Luna's mind. "Of course I shall!" The goddess truly had not even had to ask whether she would take on such a mission._

 _Gelach beamed, radiance spreading outward from her form. "Thank you, Luna. Innocence shall owe you a boon for your service. I must go, but know this: you are not alone in your quest. The Paladin shall take up his sword, and the Phoenix will light the way forward. Trust the Contradiction: the creature of Deception who is sworn to protect the Innocent, the one whose lies protect the Truth – find him and in this he will aid you… The Paladin and the Phoenix are yours to command, but the Contradiction is the key to your success…"_

 _Luna bowed again, as Gelach's avatar dissolved into the slivery light which was now spreading to every corner of the girl's quickly-fading mindscape, searing at…_ something _, dissolving some sort of foreign influence, though Severus could not have said what it was, in the moment. It – she? – began to fade away, darkness falling. Cold and terror closed in for a moment, but then there was a… a shock of sorts. An infusion of light, of magic, of_ life _, Severus realized with a shudder as the girl opened her eyes, her consciousness focused outward again. Her father was desperately chanting the words of the_ Vis Datio _– a life-force transfer ritual._

 _He threw himself on her, crying, almost immediately. "Luna – Luna – my baby – I almost lost you!"_

 _She patted him awkwardly on the back, her limbs heavy and exhausted. "It's okay, Daddy," she said, her voice equally weak._

 _"What happened? I just came in, and you were – you weren't breathing, moonbeam!"_

 _Luna shivered._ I knew she didn't have the strength to speak like that _… she thought, but her answer was a quote: "'To break the bond between Power and Acolyte requires a sacrifice of the highest order…' There are some things I need to tell you, Daddy."_

xXx

Severus extracted himself from the memory with some difficulty, echoes of the scene that followed clinging to him as he made his way back to the semi-conscious liminal space where he could speak to the girl directly. He wondered how he had never seen the signs before: _obviously_ Lovegood was a White Mage. Or had been, he supposed. Her presence at all of the Slytherin holiday celebrations; the way she seemed to know more than she possibly should or could about all manner of things; and the half-mad, metaphor-laden, oracular presentation of her thoughts all, quite suddenly, made perfect sense. Though he wasn't sure he wanted to know how old she was when she was dedicated. The goddess Gelach seemed to have been an Aspect of the Naïve Power, so she had to have been a child. In fact, the nature of her Patron likely contributed to the wide-eyed, slightly fey persona which had so irritated him in years prior – she must have done her utmost to maintain the more youthful, less worldly aspects of her personality after witnessing her mother's death a bare two years before coming to Hogwarts – he had been called to look over the scene of the so-called Potions Accident, and the traces he had found spoke of an event which would shatter the innocence of any child.

Still, all that was long past.

 _What gift did the Power give you?_ he asked, forcing his own thoughts back to the scene he had just witnessed.

 _When I was sworn into her service, a sort of empathy, which I seem to have retained, and when she released me… clarity._

 _Clarity?_

A sense of certainty washed through him, contrasted with a muddled sort of confusion which he could all too easily imagine as her base state in years prior. It was, in fact, much more in keeping with his perception of her than the clean, clear mindscape they presently inhabited.

 _Clarity,_ she repeated.

 _Very well._ He would need to think about this, he decided. But he thought he probably would help her, in the end. Even if the goddess hadn't ordained it (and he could not argue with Miss Lovegood's interpretation of 'creature of deception, sworn to protect the innocent'), it would only help him to have _some_ influence on the children's rebellion (even whatever limited influence Miss Lovegood could possibly wield). _I shall contact you as needed._

 _Or I you_ , she responded almost instantly, with a wave of relief.

He sent a pulse of resignation at her. _Do work on your legilimency skills. All that tapping was bloody irritating, and audiation should not require a slew of audio-visual aides._

 _I thought the Morse code was quite clever_.

 _Morse? – thrice-cursed, obscure… Just work on your legilimency._

He felt something like amusement wash over him as he extracted himself from her mind, concentrating fully on his food and the stony silence surrounding him at the Head Table. Yes, he would _definitely_ have to think about that one.


	48. Call Back the Dead Summary

**Call Back the Dead**

The only next-gen fic I've ever written! This story is epilogue compliant, but probably not compliant with anything JKR has said in interviews or on Pottermore. I like the behind-the-scenes bits I've made up for Mary Potter better. Sorry, not sorry.

The premise is: Albus Severus (Alsev), Scorpius Malfoy, Rose Weasley (Thorn Granger), and Lily Luna (Els) are all sorted into Slytherin and, like all fifteen year old Slytherins, decide that it would be a good idea to try to take over the world. This somehow devolves into deciding to make Rose the Master of Death (read: they were drunk), a not-quite-joke which resurfaces several times throughout the course of their lives, and in fact results in Rose acquiring all of the Deathly Hallows (through very little effort of her own) and eventually using them to bring back Sirius and be recognized as a Grand Sorceress, at which point she is eligible to be the Chief Warlock and lead the Wizengamot, which was in fact the entire point of the exercise. She also ends up with Sirius Black following her around like a lost puppy once the Director of the Department of Mysteries (Snape, who is alive) finally lets him leave the Ministry, but that's rather tangential to the plot.

This is not compliant with Dreams of Hades. It easily _could_ be, if I were willing to sacrifice the Snape/Lily dialogue and make the Director not Snape, but I'm not. You'll understand why when you get to chapter five.


	49. CBtD Ch 1-5

**Chapter 1 – Fifth Year: The Idea**

 **1 November 2022**

It started with firewhisky, on Harry Potter Day, 2022; with three fifth-year Slytherins (and one third-year tagalong), who gathered in Scorpius Malfoy's dorm room on his magically expanded bed to fulfill their annual tradition of recounting their families' stories from the last War. The war itself was now almost twenty-five years past. Most of the wizarding world had moved on. The Truce was a wonderful thing, like that. But Thorny was a Weasley, daughter of two thirds of the famed Golden Trio, and Alsev and Els, her cousins, were the children of the last and most famous of them. Scorpius' parents were more notorious than famous, and their role in the story was complicated. If anyone was to remember things the way they truly happened, it should be them, the Slytherin contingent of the Next Generation. After all, Slytherins saw things clearly.

By the end of the Recounting, Lily Luna, Els to her friends, was very drunk. "Do you ever wonder," she began, but her words quickly slurred into Parseltongue as she watched the snakes embroidered on Scorpius' bedhangings swim before her eyes.

"You're smashed, Els," Scorpius said. The accompanying giggle suggested that he was more than a little tipsy himself.

"Parsel, sis," Albus Severus, Alsev to anyone who didn't want to be hexed into next week, smirked, poking her in the side with his toe, no doubt amused by his normally overly-controlled sister so far gone she couldn't tell what language she was speaking.

"Sorry, loves," she said to the two non-Speakers, blinking hard and staring at her sometime-boyfriend in a clear effort to maintain her English. "D'you ever wonder how things would have been dif'rent if Dad was a Slytherin?"

Rose snorted, "Or if mum was a Ravenclaw?"

"Nah, if Aunt Hermione was a Ravenclaw, she'd never have met our dads, and they both probably would have died like, at least four times before the end of the war." Rose thought that Alsev was probably the next-soberest, after herself.

"From the stories," Scorpius volunteered, "it sounds like my father could have done well in Gryffindor, though Grandfather would have disowned him, no doubt."

"What, you think if my mum was in Ravenclaw, Draco Malfoy could have been the brains of the Golden Trio?"

Scorpius giggled again. "No, oh, Powers, no. He and Lord Potter would probably have hexed each other into pudding, or else spent all their time snogging in a broom cupboard."

The Potter children fell on Scorpius with pillows and a pile of objections to this image. Everyone knew that Draco Malfoy was a philanderer, and not picky about the gender of his partners, but that didn't mean they wanted to think about their father that way. Besides, Harry had always been very loyal to Ginny. Rose, personally, thought that Draco and Harry would have made a very good-looking couple – they were both handsome men – but the fact that they couldn't say more than two words in passing without one of them bringing up the past, and had nearly disinherited their Heir and burnt down the Burrow respectively when Scorpius and Els had admitted they were dating, argued more for the hexing into pudding alternative.

Eventually the Potters and Malfoy settled down (after a particularly vicious swing of her pillow overbalanced Els and she fell off the bed), and Els (still lying on the floor) stubbornly returned to her original question. "Sss-eriously, Thorny," she said with some effort, "what if he -" She hiccoughed. "Shit." Another hiccough. "Please, Alsev?" she fixed big, brown, puppy-dog eyes on her brother, still hiccoughing, until he performed the charm to make them stop. "You're the best!" she said with a radiant smile. "What was I say – oh, yeah! What if dad knew all the things we've learned since school started?"

"Um, he was a student, Els," Scorpius pointed out in confusion. "He learned everything we're learning."

"No, no, no, not class stuff, like rituals and stuff. Powers. I asked mum over the summer, and she didn't know anything about like, the Revel, or any of it, cos they're all Gryffindor, right? And Dad was muggle-raised. So he didn't know. An' no one ever told him, cos he was a Gryffindor, and they didn't know either."

Rose was nodding, though she stopped when she noticed the unconscious action. "My mum has a couple books on the Powers. I think she researched the Artifacts more, after, because of the Deathly Hallows, you know. But I dunno. We still don't acknowledge the Old Ways at home. The Weasleys have been Progressive for ages."

Scorpius sniffed, in imitation of his father. "A travesty, the state of the Wizarding World today!"

None of the others laughed. They didn't often talk about it, but they didn't actually disagree. The last two wars hadn't solved anything. The Ministry was still corrupt and useless, and worse, stopped anyone else from doing useful things, too. The Wizengamot was still full of old men who stubbornly refused to either change or die so that the younger generations could make changes. Muggles were pulling ever-further ahead in their standards of living, compared to wizards, and wizards were still hiding from them.

"We could fix it," Rose offered.

"Isn't that what your mum's been trying to do for years, Thorny?"

"Well… kinda," Rose blinked at Scorpius. "She got… side tracked, by creature rights. She didn't… She never really appreciated the bigger problems, the wizarding problems. I… think we need to deal with those, first."

"Get our own house in order before worrying about the neighbors?" Alsev asked sardonically.

"Basically."

"Well, it's all well and good to _say_ that, but…"

"No, it could work!" Els was excited, now. "You're the Malfoy Heir. You still have pull in the Dark Bloc. Dad and Jas don't care for politics. When Alsev hits his majority, I bet you _anything_ they'd let him take over the Potter Seats, and since we're the de-facto leaders of the Light Bloc, when we get married, there's the Major Alliance. Hey, Thorny, wanna be minister?"

"Oh, nine hells no! Have you seen the checks they've put on that position since the Fudge Administration? It's all work and no power, now. Chief Warlock, though, I could get behind."

"If you're not a sitting member of the Wizengamot, you'd need to achieve the rank of Grand Sorceress," Scorpius pointed out, giving her a challenging smirk.

"What, you think I couldn't?"

"There hasn't been a Grand Sorceress in what, four-hundred years? They didn't even give your dad Grand Sorcerer rank. You have to demonstrate power and achievements far beyond the norm, and repeatedly not-dying didn't count."

All four were silent for a long minute after that. Rose was planning on a career in the Department of Mysteries, which had achievements beyond the norm written all over it, but she was only average in power.

"It's too bad we couldn't figure out how to really use the Deathly Hallows," Alsev said, no doubt thinking of the Invisibility Cloak he had inherited after his older brother proved himself a true heir to his namesakes, and therefore not responsible enough to handle owning an Artifact of the Powers.

"Why couldn't we?" Els asked, finally rejoining the others on the bed.

"Well, we don't have the Wand, and the Stone is lost, and no one knows what it even means to be Master of Death."

"Well, yeah, but… we know where they are. In that clearing, and Dumbledore's tomb. I bet we could find them. And figuring out what it means to be Master of Death sounds like a job for the Department of Mysteries, doesn't it?" she asked pointedly.

"She has a point, Thorny." This came, surprisingly, not from Alsev, but from Scorpius. "Mistress of Death would be a shoo-in for Grand Sorceress. Even Dumbledore never managed that."

"Like you'd want me experimenting on the Cloak," Rose scoffed.

"No," Alsev said suddenly, "I mean, actually, I wouldn't mind… it's just… what would you do, if you were the Mistress of Death? You'd have to actually demonstrate your power somehow."

"I… dunno. I guess it depends what I could do. I mean, the cloak is basically a perfect shield. And the wand is super powerful. And the stone is supposed to bring back shades, right? Without having to really become a Necromancer."

"Yeah, but let's be real," Els said, suddenly seeming very sober. "You'd probably have to study _some_ necromancy to even figure out what the Hallows actually _do_ and what they have to do with the Deathly Power and all that."

"The first thing, though," Scorpius said, interrupting Rose's musings on whether she really wanted to study Necromancy, or even Black Arts – because dealing with the Deathly Power _would_ be Black Arts, "is probably finding the Stone. If we don't have that, there's really no point at all."

The others nodded their agreement, Rose with a certain amount of relief.

"Well, I guess that's settled, then," Els said. Before any of the others could ask her exactly what was settled, she continued imperiously, "Now go away, Alsev, Thorny. We have class in… six hours, and I fully intend to get a good bit of snogging in before bed."

Rose sniggered at the look on Scorpius' face, somewhere between resigned to staying up, and pleased at the prospect of a good snog. "Don't come crying to me for a hangover potion in the morning," she warned the younger girl, and received a rude hand gesture in return.

Alsev shot his best big-brother glare at his best friend, but did roll off the bed to follow Rose to the door.

"So, Mistress of Death?" he asked quietly, once they were alone in the corridor.

Rose snorted. "It'll never happen."

 **Chapter 2 – Sixth Year: The Bond**

 **April 2024**

Fifth and sixth and seventh years passed quickly, though it didn't really seem so at the time, especially when OWLs and NEWTs rolled around. Over those three years, Rose hardly thought at all about her little cousin's drunken decision to make her the Mistress of Death. She didn't precisely forget, but she never took it seriously. When Professor Farley, her Head of House, and later the Unspeakable who interviewed her for her job in the Department of Mysteries asked, she told them that she was interested in working with Death, but because she wished to understand the nature of the human soul and the universe, not because she had some fairy-tale dream of one day taming the Hallows. This had the advantage of being absolutely true.

She had already started independent studies in that direction, begging access to the Potter-Peverell library with Alsev in the summer after their fifth year. Harry had let them in only after they swore not to use anything they found in there until they reached their majorities at least. Els wasn't allowed in at all, but she said that was fine – she had other things to concern herself with. (This was more than a little unnerving to Harry.)

In sixth year, it became clear what Els, who had inherited her parents' penchant for trouble, and ending up in places she really oughtn't be, was so concerned with. Despite the fact that their parents had very carefully never told them where the main entrance was located, she had discovered the back door to the Chamber of Secrets in her third year (Rose's fifth). She managed to keep it a secret for over a year, until she finally decided to let Rose in at the end of her sixth year.

In Rose's sixth year, over the Easter Holiday, Hermione discovered incontrovertible proof that Ron had been cheating on her nearly as long as they had been married. There had been signs before, of course (Rose had suspected since she was eight), but so long as Hermione could turn a blind eye to the affairs, she would. When she couldn't any longer, she had confronted her husband in front of the children, demanding a divorce. Unlike the Potters, who were so co-dependent it was difficult to think of Harry and Ginny as separate people, and the Malfoys, who had an unabashedly open marriage of convenience, Hermione could and would leave her husband for what she considered to be a great dishonor.

Their argument had gotten nasty, with Ron accusing Hermione of any number of failings as a wife, excuses for his infidelity, and Hermione shouting that Ron had never changed at all – he was still the self-centered boy who had walked out on herself and Harry that night in the Forest of Dean. At this, Ron had truly lost his temper, insisting that Hermione had always been in love with Harry, and that he half-suspected the kids were never his at all. Hugo had been terribly hurt by this. It was true that both of them took after their mother more than their father, but if there was ever any doubt that Rose, at least, had inherited his temper, it was erased by her immediate Repudiation of the man who sired her.

Ron and Rose had been close before Rose went to Hogwarts. She could still remember his joke on the platform about disinheriting her if she went anywhere but Gryffindor. He hadn't, really, but their relationship had only grown more strained over the years, as she became friends with Scorpius instead of enemies and followed the Truce religiously, letting bygones be bygones, in defiance of her father's attitude. By third year, their fights were a thing of legend, even moreso than her parents' habit of rowing all through Hogwarts. For Yule that year, Scorpius had given her a knife and a book and a note that said, "You can't choose your family, but you can choose to leave."

Rose didn't speak to him for ages, thinking that he was just as bad as her father said, wanting to come between herself and her family. But then over the summer she had been reduced to tears when she heard her father and Uncle Harry drinking and discussing their Hogwarts years. "Never can trust a Snake," Ron said, no thought for the fact that his own daughter and two of Harry's children were Slytherins.

"Hey!" Harry had objected.

"I know, I know, he turned out to be a hero in the end," Ron had said, and it was clear he had really mostly meant Severus Snape, "but he was still a ruddy git. And you can't say him and bloody Riddle weren't exactly what that House was made for."

Harry had left, then, angrily, after telling Ron off for not being able to let go of Hogwarts prejudices twenty years later. Rose had run to her room and blockaded the door, crying over the note Scorpius had sent with the knife. For the first time, she opened the book, and found that it was all about breaking House bonds. He had marked the chapter on Repudiation, all about how a child could choose to, essentially, cast themselves out of their family tree, like Andromeda Black, Teddy's grandmother, who cut ties with her family to marry Ted Tonks. She finally understood, that night, that Scorpius had only meant to give her the option to leave, if she ever truly needed to.

She hadn't used the knife and the knowledge in the three years that followed, though she carried it with her whenever she was home, and Powers knew the temptation had been immense on more than one occasion. She could not stand the thought of leaving her mother and her brother as well as her father, and since she had reached her majority without using it, she thought she never would.

When Ron declared, in the midst of his break-up with his wife, that he doubted whether Rose was ever his daughter, she did, slicing open her palm and declaring on her blood and magic that she would no longer be Rose Weasley, never again a scion of his house. She became Rose Granger in the eyes of Magic (though the legal name change would take a bit longer), and threw him out of the house for dishonoring her mother. There was fear in his eyes, along with shame, as he disapparated from their front lawn, no doubt running home to Grandma Weasley.

The first day back to school, Rose had gotten an owl with breakfast: "Meet me in my room after dinner. –LL" The younger girl had dragged her through the tunnels, down twisting stairs, into an unused bedchamber with an enormous tapestry spread out on the bed and from there to a small, somewhat dusty sitting room.

"Is it true?" Els had demanded, at the same time Rose asked, "Where are we?"

Els had ignored Rose's question. "Are you really… not a Weasley anymore?" There were tears in the corners of her eyes.

Rose had nodded. She hadn't realized, in the heat of the moment, that by cutting off her father, she would also be cutting herself off from her cousins, but it was true. She was no longer a Weasley; no longer related to Els and Alsev, at least as wizards reckoned such things.

Els, with her characteristic impetuousness, had declared with a sniffle, "Well, if you can't be my cousin, you'll have to be my sister instead."

Rose had laughed, and told her in no uncertain terms that she would _not_ marry Alsev or Jas just to be Els' sister. Els had smacked her and told her not to be gross before digging a scroll covered in her own messy scrawl out of her bag.

"Read this," she had ordered her older cousin.

Rose did. It was a ritual, apparently to bind the two of them together as blood-siblings, a variation on a binding she must have gotten from Alsev, because Rose recognized it as soul magic.

"Well?"

"I always wanted a sister," Rose said with a weak smile.

Els had flung herself across the couch at the older girl, nearly strangling her in a hug. They did the ritual at once, Els' intentions binding them by blood; Rose's knowledge binding them deeper than that – soul-sisters, in the truest sense of the words.

"Where are we?" Rose had asked again, once they recovered from the rush of magic that accompanied the impromptu ceremony.

"The Chamber of Secrets!" Els said, her eyes lighting up.

Rose's mouth dropped open. "Are you shitting me?"

Els' grin was the epitome of smugness. "Nope. Come look!"

The younger girl had dragged her newfound sister back to the bedchamber and the tapestry – a Slytherin family tree, running back nearly five-hundred years. They watched as black and silver threads re-wove themselves on the emerald field to form the name 'Emily Rose Granger,' connected by a sibling arc to 'Lily Luna Potter.' She traced the lines back, running her fingers over 'Harry James Potter,' and then, to her surprise 'Lily Irene Evans' a direct descendant of 'Tom Marvolo Riddle.'

"Els," she had whispered, "How long have you known about this?"

The younger girl shrugged. "A while." She shifted uncomfortably, relaxed enough here, so far from all the other Slytherins, to act her age.

Rose considered for about half a second before she said, "I won't tell anyone if you don't."

She received one of Els' trademark dazzling grins in response. "Wanna see the library?"

Rose did, very much, want to see the library, and the Chamber proper, where Harry had fought the Basilisk to rescue Ginny, though perhaps not the passage up to Moaning Myrtle's loo, which was disgusting in every version of the story. The Basilisk was still perfectly preserved, twenty-five years later. Rose could practically feel magic radiating off its corpse. The girls gave it a wide berth, and quickly retreated back to the small sitting-room-like area. In Els' words, the Big Chamber was creepy.

The library, according to Els, was a mess when she first found it. A previous heir – probably Riddle – had obviously taken everything he thought he might need in the future with him when he left the castle. There were still piles of books on subjects ranging from Parseltongue to wardcrafting to Black Arts primers. There were only three books on soul magic, apparently missed in the purge, but they all contained what was to Rose new information, not mentioned in any of the texts she had seen in the Potter-Peverell library. There was a whole section on Necromancy – all theory, with no practical guides, but that was okay: Rose didn't want to actually become a necromancer. Els taught her the Parseltongue password to enter the Chamber, and she spent most of her free time there seventh year, taking notes on the dark books – who knew when she would have another chance?

 **Chapter 3 – Seventh Year: The Wand**

 **28-29 June 2025**

"You two are _insane_!" Alsev hissed at his two best friends. It was their last night in the dorms, and he, Scorpius, and Rose were celebrating and mourning the end of their time at Hogwarts by getting very drunk, this time in Rose's room. The venue was strangely barren – everything was packed but the firewhisky and Rose's robes for the ride home. Els had turned down Scorpius' invitation to their little party, saying that the three of them should enjoy their last night at Hogwarts together.

Scorpius, ever the troublemaker at heart, had just suggested that they go steal the Elder Wand from Dumbledore's Tomb. Rose hadn't immediately shot him down. She blamed it on the alcohol, but it didn't seem like such a terrible idea. After all, no one else knew it was even there. The official story was that Harry had destroyed it after the Final Battle.

"It's only insane if you don't come with us," she argued, rather sensibly in her own opinion. Alsev was the best cursebreaker among them. He could have had a career with Gringott's if he didn't want to go into politics, and they didn't take just anyone.

"Come on, Alsev! It's our last night. Our last chance. How is Thorny supposed to become the Mistress of Death if we don't get her the Wand?"

Both Alsev and Rose snorted with laughter at this. "It's not like we have the Stone, either," Alsev pointed out.

Scorpius waved this objection away. "Don't you want to out-do Jas and Carson's leaving prank?"

"Not really. I gave up competing with Jas years ago, you know that."

"I want to end our Hogwarts years on a high note!" Scorpius pouted.

"You're engaged to Els and poised to take over the Malfoy seat in the Wizengamot at the age of eighteen. How much higher of a note can you get?" Rose asked rhetorically.

"Stealing the Elder Wand," the blond boy replied seriously. "Don't make me beg, Als. I will. You know I will."

"But Malfoy, you know I love it when you beg," Alsev teased, only to immediately blush when he realized he'd said it aloud.

Rose sat back to enjoy the show. Scorpius _always_ won at gay-chicken, mostly because he was openly bisexual and Alsev was still furiously denying that he was gay. It started with Scorpius sliding bonelessly off the conjured sofa to kneel in front of Alsev, giving him his best imitation of Els' puppy dog eyes. "Please?" he nearly whispered.

Alsev shook his head, eyes sparkling with alcohol and amusement.

"Als… Alsev." Alsev shivered at Scorpius' tone. Scorpius must have noticed, because he said it again. "Alsev… please? For me?"

"No. It's insane," Alsev laughed a little hysterically.

Scorpius slid back onto the couch, one arm around his friend's neck, practically sitting on his lap. "Please? You know I'd do it for you… I'd do anything for you…"

"Anything?"

"Anything at all, love," Scorpius' lips were brushing Alsev's ear by this point, as he drew out the word, " _Anything_."

And then, just when it looked like Alsev was about to crack, Scorpius nibbled his earlobe.

"Argh! Get off!"

"Oh, believe me, I am," Scorpius murmured, still clinging to Alsev as the dark-haired boy pushed him away.

"Fine! I'll do it! Whatever! Just let me go!" Alsev was very, very red.

"Done!" Scorpius bounced to his feet. "Come on!"

"You made it almost a minute that time, Alsev," Rose informed him, smirking at her one-time cousin.

Alsev stalked out of the room muttering about how unfair it was that Scorpius was so unscrupulous about using his sexy wiles, and why on Earth he had to be dating _Els_ , of all people. He reappeared minutes later under the Invisibility Cloak to find Rose and Scorpius lying on the bed giggling at the idea that he might try something if the blond was with anyone else but his sister. "Are you coming or not?" he asked shortly, then made exasperated noises for the entire five minutes it took for Rose to dig her cloak out of her packed trunk and Scorpius to go change into what he referred to as his sneaking-out clothes. This included charming his hair and skin not to reflect the light, since he was so pale he practically glowed like a ghost under the night sky.

The three Slytherins cast a barrage of charms on themselves to increase their ability to move silently and unseen before slipping out onto the grounds through one of the dungeon side-entrances. Though none of them had said it, it was also incredibly convenient to have Alsev present as a Parselmouth to open the door again when they wanted to go back.

They moved swiftly to the white marble tomb, glowing in the faint light of a crescent moon.

"Are you guys sure about this?" Albus asked.

"Yes!" the others answered in tandem.

"All right, then, Scorpius, help me put up a Gambol's Circle. Rose, keep watch until we can all get inside the circle."

Rose scanned the grounds as the boys walked a wide circle around the Tomb, carving runes of light into the long grass to mark the edges of an area within which time would seem to stand still, at least from the outside. It was normally used to facilitate illegal duels, and would prevent anyone from seeing anything unusual occurring around the Tomb, as well as absorb any spells that bounced off the monument.

"Alright, everyone in," Alsev ordered. Rose watched as the boys walked through the barrier and apparently disappeared.

"We good?" Scorpius asked when she joined them.

She nodded as Alsev said, "Of course we are. I cast it, didn't I?" The others shared a smirk at his casual arrogance, which he reserved only for his skills with Runes and Arithmancy.

Three hours later, after numerous tedious diagnostic spells and careful disenchantments under the watchful, bossy direction of Alsev (whose mood slowly improved as he practiced his favorite art), the tomb was finally opened. Dumbledore's remains, perfectly restored and preserved by magic, like the basilisk in the Chamber, looked as though he could be only sleeping. The Elder Wand was tucked beneath his folded hands.

"What the bloody hell are you waiting for?" Alsev asked, obviously feeling the strain of holding one of the more recalcitrant enchantments in stasis while the others levitated the capstone away.

Scorpius' eyes met Rose's across the dead man. "Take it," he said.

Rose bit her lip, screwed up her courage (for Slytherins could have courage, even if it wasn't their defining trait), and slipped the wand out of the tomb. It thrilled to her hand as though it was made for her. She stared at it for several seconds, unable to believe that she truly was holding _the_ Elder Wand, until Alsev said irritably, "Hurry the fuck up and put the lid back!" breaking the spell.

They closed the tomb, Alsev insisting on an extra hour to re-do all the enchantments, so that no one would know it had been entered at all, and then the three of them spent a good hour and a half testing the limits and power of the Deathstick. It was, as the legend suggested, uniquely suited to offensive spells, and suited Rose's hand best out of the three of them. The boys jokingly insisted that this was because Rose was clearly the most vicious among them, but she rather suspected that it was because she was the one to take it from the tomb, even though it had been Scorpius' idea, and Alsev had done most of the work.

By the time they crept back into their dorms and bid each other goodnight, it was nearly daybreak.

Not knowing what else to do with it now that she had it, Rose hid the wand at the very bottom of her trunk, setting it aside as a reminder of her last Hogwarts adventure. After all, it wasn't as though being the new master of the Deathstick would really help her realize her ambitions to understand the fundamental makeup of the universe. For now, all it could possibly be was a death sentence, should any more power-hungry wizards realize that it still existed and was in her hands.

So far as she knew, neither she nor either of the boys mentioned their Last Adventure to anyone, though a certain birthday gift, seven years later, suggested that Scorpius, at least, had mentioned it to one other person.

 **Chapter 4 – Twenty-Five: The Plan**

 **2032**

Rose did not expect anything much of her twenty-fifth birthday. Twenty-five was not an important age, for muggles or wizards. She would go to work as usual, then to dinner with her mother and brother, his current girlfriend, whatever her name was, and Onyx Zabini, whom she couldn't decide if she was really interested in dating or not. There would be a big party for her at the Potters' house over the weekend, but with so many people in the Potter-Weasley(-Granger) extended family, at this point there was a birthday party or some holiday to celebrate almost every weekend of the year. The weekend after this one, for example, would be Maia and Matar Malfoy's second birthday (Els had caved to the alliterative naming trends of the wizarding world despite her hatred of her own double-L, dooming her twins to the inevitable monikers 'Girl Ems' and 'Boy Ems'). Teddy and Vickie's daughter would be turning four the week after that.

There was nothing particularly special or exciting about the day, so far as Rose was concerned, which made it very surprising to return home after dinner to find that someone had broken into her flat to leave a birthday gift. It was clear immediately who had done it, of course – there was only one cloak like that in existence, and only one stone. The accompanying note, written in her brother-in-law's perfect, copperplate handwriting said:

 _In the grand tradition of the Old Stories, we hereby present you these dangerous and mysterious artifacts, with no explanation or advice save: Happy Birthday. Use them well._

Rose had walked to her bedroom in a daze and opened her old school trunk, retrieving a wand she hadn't touched in more than half a decade. She laid it on the table with its fellow Hallows, and sat up half the night, staring at the treasures and trying to wrap her mind around the implications of this gift. Why had they given her the Hallows? What would they want in return? What did it mean to be the Mistress of Death?

At half past three, she finally gave up, speaking the words, "Holy shit," aloud, and pouring herself a shot before abandoning the artifacts to get some sleep.

In the morning, she cursed herself for leaving such valuable artifacts lying on her kitchen table, for all the world to see, had they cared to look. She tucked them away in her school trunk, warding it heavily before heading to work.

That weekend, she cornered her three friends to ask them what the bloody hell they meant by giving her _that_ gift. Scorpius had opted for the too-innocent 'what gift?' while the Potter brats smirked like twin loons. Eventually they had admitted that Els had found the Stone her seventh year, and had used it only a few times, mostly to speak to historical figures and the people from the Stories – Lupin and Tonks, her uncle Fred, Sirius Black and James and Lily Potter. Lily Potter had eventually convinced her to stop using the stone. It was, her namesake had told her, dangerous to use too often or for too long, and had a history of driving its owners to suicide. Els, with no loved ones who had died, was able to set it aside, and it had lived in her jewelry box ever since.

Scorpius had finally let it slip a couple of months prior that he, Alsev and Rose had stolen the Wand on their last night at school, and that it had chosen Rose. Els, still enamored of the idea of her soul-sister becoming the Mistress of Death, had insisted that they ought to give her a chance to figure out how to use the Hallows properly, since apparently no one knew. They had convinced Alsev to lend her the cloak, with the caveat that it should be returned when the next generation of Potters came of age. Since Jas' oldest child was not quite a year old, they figured that should be plenty of time to figure out how the damn thing was supposed to work.

Rose, for one, was relieved that the Cloak was only on loan. She didn't think she could handle being outright _given_ all of the Hallows, even if it was more of a research request than an outright gift.

That night, she fished the Stone out of her trunk, and turned it three times in her palm, as Harry always said he had done, in the story, wondering who she ought to call back. Like Els, she had never lost anyone very close to her before. Her mind drifted back to the same old stories, and before she knew it, a petite red-head with flashing green eyes had appeared before her.

"Who are you?" the spirit asked, peering closely at Rose. "You don't look a bit like Harry's daughter, but you kind of feel like her."

Rose smirked. Out of all the heroes of the Old Stories, Lily Evans Potter was her favorite, and also the one least well known. "Thorn Granger," she said. "Els and I are soul-sisters."

"Come again?"

"Erm… how much do you know about soul magic?"

Now it was Lily's turn to smirk. "Enough to beat old Moldy Shorts at his own game. Seriously, though, I read through most of Jamie's library while we were in hiding. It was dead boring. The hiding, not the reading."

"Do you know Palmage's Marriage of Souls?"

"The one that's like a mutual living horcrux thing?"

"Yeah. Els adapted that thinking to make us blood siblings, but since I knew the original version already, it went a bit further than I think she intended," Rose explained warily, half expecting the spirit to react badly to finding out that her granddaughter had unwittingly been dabbling in soul magic long before she found the Resurrection Stone.

The apparition cocked her head to the side and squinted as though trying to visualize the exact sequence of events, and then said, "Huh. So I guess I was right, thinking that knowledge and belief makes a difference for that sort of thing. Cool." She flopped into an armchair. "So what do you do, and why do you have the Stone? I distinctly remember telling… Els? That that thing is dangerous."

They talked late into the night, and for most of the next day as well. By Sunday evening, they had a plan.

…

It was, perhaps, deeply ironic, that the Mistress of Death and sole researcher focusing on the Veil of Death in the Department of Mysteries had never seen anyone die, at least outside of a hospital. There were plenty of people in the department who were old enough to have fought in Voldemort's Second War, if not in his first as well. Everyone in the Time Chamber had seen a particularly gruesome accident not long before she had officially joined the department, and just last year, there had been an accident in the Intelligence Lab, not unlike the one the man who sired her had suffered thirty-odd years before, which resulted in the death of an intern. Rose, when she had been nothing more than a prospective intern herself, had been told that no girl of eighteen who couldn't even see a thestral had any right to study the Veil, no matter how much research on soul magic and necromancy she might have done.

Young and every bit as impetuous as she often accused her soul-sister of being, she had marched right out of the Department and floo'd to St. Mungo's, where she spent two weeks more or less living in the Emergency and Hospice wards, observing Death and the dying. When she came back, the Director, who apparently had taken her abrupt departure as an indication that she was quitting, had legilimized her, smirked and muttered to himself that he ought not to have expected anything less from Hermione Granger's daughter, though he never did say how he knew her mother.

He spent the next four hours giving her a grueling oral exam on necromancy and soul magic. Rose couldn't see why he didn't just do the job himself, if he knew so much about it already. At the end of the assessment, he had declared her background knowledge "passable" and had moved directly into the most subtle legilimency attack she had ever felt, as he discussed the specifics of her duties as an intern and the paperwork she would need to complete.

Finally, he witnessed her Oaths of Unspeakability and passed her a time table. The only indication she was given that she had done well in the test of her Occlumency was that he removed two of the three practice blocks from her schedule with an impatient tap of his wand.

"I trust I need not tell you not to enter the Veil," he concluded in an exceedingly dry tone. "I would be deeply disappointed to have to complete the paperwork which always follows the… loss of another intern." Rose hid a smirk. She would have bet anything he was a Slytherin.

"Indeed not, sir," she said, and was dismissed with a wave.

Seven years later, Rose still knew almost nothing about her boss, except that he was the only person in the department who knew more than she did about Necromancy and the Deathly Power (most of the Department were Progressives). It still baffled her why she was even employed at all, given that she had never once managed to surprise him with any of her findings. Still, outside of her own interns (who never seemed to want to stick around very long, and often left without notice, citing reasons ranging from 'the veil creeps me out' to 'Unspeakable Granger creeps me out') the Director was probably the person she talked to most often, and she felt that, after seven years, they had established a degree of rapport. For example, he occasionally answered her questions without being a completely scathing bastard, and would often discuss and debate more complex theories at length when she was stuck on a particularly thorny problem and he was bored of the endless paperwork that accompanied his position.

The Plan, such as it was, involved taking the Stone to the Director, and getting him in on the problem, since Lily and Rose had reached a dead end.

On Monday morning, Rose entered the Office of the Director of Unspeakables and stood, waiting patiently, until he deigned to recognize her, just as she did nearly every Monday. She wasn't sure if he ever left the building, and he never seemed to sleep.

"What do you want, Granger?" he asked, not even looking up from an expense report.

"An artifact has come to my attention, sir," she said, trying hard to keep a smirk from her voice. He was totally going to flip.

" _What_ artifact, Granger?" he asked, still not looking up.

"This one." Rose turned the stone in her hand, and Lily's shade appeared.

"Oh. My. God," the spirit's jaw dropped. "Sev, you got _old_."

 **Chapter 5 – Alternate History**

 **2032**

" _Which_ one, Granger?" The man finally looked up, tossing his quill aside irritably, apparently unable to see or hear the apparition in front of him.

"Severus Snape, you bloody idiot! Lily Luna said you were dead! You'd best explain yourself right now! Don't think I can't hex you from beyond the Veil!"

"I'm _waiting_ , Granger."

Rose was staring at the spirit, who apparently realized what was going on, and regained her temper with obvious effort. "He can't hear me," Lily said shortly. "Give him the stone, Thorn."

Rose hesitated, but held it out to the older man. _Severus Snape? The war hero? The Director?_ "This one, sir."

She handed it over, and at once Lily faded from her sight. The Director must have been able to see her, though, and hear her, because he went even paler than usual and whispered, "Lily?" before cringing before an unseen force like a scolded child.

"If you would be so kind as to shut up, I would gladly explain," he said sharply.

After another moment of listening, he placed the stone on the desk and slid it across so that Rose could touch it, too. She reached out and placed a single finger on it, as though it was a tiny portkey.

"Dark Powers," Lily was complaining, "I hate not being able to touch things. Right. Now that we can all hear each other, start talking, mister. Why are you alive?"

The Director, Snape, smirked at that. "I happen to be _very_ good at potions, and time travel, though I suppose all that was after your time."

"I know it's basically your nature to be as obfuscating as possible, but stop being such a cryptic bastard, Sev."

"You're one to talk," Snape muttered, but Lily ignored him.

"Lily Luna, that's my _granddaughter_ , if you don't know, told me that you died of a snake bite, after giving Harry a bunch of old memories and somehow leaving him with the impression that you were head over heels in love with me. What the bloody hell?"

"Excuse me for being a bit distracted _dying_ ," the man said in acid tones. "I only _meant_ to give him the memory of Dumbledore telling me he would have to sacrifice himself, but it was tied to the circumstances of my oath to the buggering old goat, which was _your death_ , by the way, and _that_ was tied to a few key memories of you – not behind the scenes, those were all separate – but in the end it was easier and faster to just hand them all over and get rid of him so I could go about _faking_ my death."

"Faking your death?" Rose ventured.

" _Obviously,_ " the Director and the dead woman answered in tandem. It was rather uncanny.

"Can I ask _how?"_

The man sighed. "Though it was not common knowledge, I was once depended upon to reverse the mishaps of students using time turners throughout Hogwarts castle. One of my more interesting duties, admittedly, despite the fact that I rather detest time travel myself. In the spring of 1996, the golden trio led an incursion into the Department to attain a prophecy at the behest of the Dark Lord, destroying, in the process, the vast majority of the Time Room and the Hall of Prophecy. I obtained a sample of the Sands of Time while they created their unwitting distraction, and used my years of extensive notes on the development of the Time Turner to enchant one for my own purposes.

"Two years later, when the Dark Lord attacked Hogwarts, I was bitten by his familiar and left to bleed out in the Shrieking Shack. I had, of course, anticipated that the snake might someday be used as the instrument of my death – he preferred that traitors should die painfully – and so I formulated an antivenin which I administered to myself any time I was likely to be in its company. It was worth the effort to repeatedly remove the unused antivenin from my blood when I was not bitten, to have the insurance against such an attack.

"When I was bitten, I immediately resolved to come back, no matter how many hours might pass, and save myself from the bloodloss, thus allowing the creation of a minimally-paradoxical closed time loop. Before my future-self dared reveal himself, I needed to get rid of Potter and your bloody parents, thus the rushed memory-extraction. They retreated, and he dropped the concealment charms behind which he had been waiting, healing me. When I was sufficiently recovered, I concealed myself and used the time-turner to go back, appearing in time to watch my former self be attacked by the serpent, resolve to save himself, and send the Gryffindor children away, after which I healed him and allowed him to depart, closing the loop.

"After the loop closed, I created a reasonably realistic simulacrum of myself and departed. No one would doubt, after all, that I had died, given the witnesses to the event and the vast quantity of blood on the floor. So far as I know, no one tested the body. I had a few contacts from the interbellum here in the Department, and took a position in the Intelligence Lab with few questions asked. Simple enough."

"Oh, yeah," Lily's shade said sarcastically, " _so_ simple. Never thought to check in and let any of them know you weren't dead? Not even after you were posthumously cleared of all charges? Seriously, Sev?!"

The man's dark eyes softened slightly. "Lily… you know as well as I do that they are far more willing to forgive the faults of the dead." Then he smirked. "Surely one of your descendants has informed you how your own reputation has changed since your death."

Lily scowled. "Oh, yeah, right paragon of virtue I am." She made a rude gesture at the man. "Bet they think I was a virgin at my wedding, too. Seems no one told Harry _anything_ about what I did in the war, or much about me at all. I mean, I guess it's just as well – Sirius obviously didn't want to speak ill of the dead – but _you_ could have told him."

"Where would be the fun in that?" Mischief lit the Director's eyes. "Besides, he was an utterly insufferable child."

"You take that back, Severus Snape!" the spirit glared. "You never liked James, but Harry's nothing like him! Petunia made sure of that!"

"The same disregard for rules, the same arrogance, the same attitude problems, yes, I see your point, nothing alike at all."

"Oh, stuff it, Alex. You know he could as easily have gotten any of those traits from me."

"I missed you, Irony."

"I missed you, too." The two old friends grinned at each other, sharing some sort of wordless communication until Rose cleared her throat.

"So, um… just to be clear… you two were never in love?"

"She was like a sister to me," the Director said firmly.

"He totally was. He didn't figure out it was more _storge_ than _eros_ until after we had sex!" the spirit added brightly.

"Lily!"

She shrugged unrepentantly. "It's true. And shocking the kiddies is fun!"

" _She_ figured it out _before_ we had sex," the man said drily, raising an eyebrow, "and propositioned me _anyway_."

"Sev! You said you wouldn't tell anyone!"

"You're dead, and you did say you're enjoying the shock factor."

"That doesn't mean I want you going around implying that I'm into incest!"

"My sincerest apologies, I only meant to imply that you were an utter slag."

"Oh, come off it! It's not like I was _Black_."

Rose was certain her face must be glowing. "Perhaps I'll just… leave you two to catch up a bit, before we discuss the idea Lily and I developed…?" she asked rather rhetorically, withdrawing her finger from the stone and edging toward the door.

The Director cocked his head to one side, apparently listening to the spirit before saying, "Yes, indeed. Return after lunch, Granger."

"Yes, sir." Rose fled.

…

"Whose idea was this?" the Director asked, several hours later. He was obviously unimpressed with the two young women before him.

"Erm… Lily's?" Rose admitted reluctantly. The shade nodded eagerly. They hadn't been able to think of anything better.

"And what, _precisely_ , is the Resurrection Stone known to do?"

"Drive its owners to suicide?" The researcher from the Death Chamber had a sinking feeling about this.

The Director pinched the bridge of his nose with the hand that was not touching the stone in question. "And which part, exactly, of just _walking through the Veil_ , on the advice of _a shade summoned by the Resurrection Stone_ sounds like anything _other_ than suicide, to you?"

"The part where I may have kind of accidentally performed Palmage's Marriage of Souls when I was seventeen, and also the part where I do have all three of the Deathly Hallows," she defended herself.

"That has to count for something, right?" Lily asked, probably rhetorically.

The Director had glared at her. "No! No one in living memory knows what those artifacts are meant to _do_. And the more you speak, the more convinced I am that I should consign the stone to the Warehouse."

"That's – I'm wounded, Sev," the shade pouted.

He raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "And I am no longer sixteen, Lily. I daresay I've learned a bit of caution in my old age."

She sighed loudly. " _Fine_. You're very good, you know. Both of you. Properly suspicious. I have been telling the truth, but there's no way I can make you believe me. So I suppose the only thing to do is, put the stone away for now, and find a way to question Death and ask him yourselves how they work!"

The Unspeakables stared at each other for a long moment, baffled by the simplicity of that particular suggestion. "I… um… There has to be a way to do that, right?" Rose asked hesitantly. "Question Death?"

"Oh, of course, we'll just need two cc's of mouse blood, a few bits of wood, and an egg," the Director snarked. Rose blinked at him in confusion.

Lily giggled. "It's probably a bit more complicated than that, but…"

"Indeed. Well, then. I shall bid you farewell for now, Lily."

"Laters, Amicus!" she said cheerfully.

"It's _Augustus_ , Irony," the man said, rolling his eyes.

"Sev! I told you I was going to guess!"

"It's been _sixty years_ , and _you're dead_ , Lily. You were never going to get it."

"Fine," the shade pouted. " _Fare thee well_ , Severus _Augustus_ Snape. I shall see thee on the other side. Or, you know, whenever. Thorn, I'd recommend starting with Miskatonic. I hear they've got an awesome Necro collection." And then she waved cheerfully, and vanished.

The Director sighed as he removed his finger from the Resurrection Stone. Rose picked it up gingerly, and slipped it back into her pocket.

"Ms. Granger," he said abruptly, shaking off the melancholy that seemed to have settled upon him. "I do believe you ought to go book yourself a jump to the Americas. I shall have a letter of Introduction to the Dean ready for you in within the hour."

"Yes, sir," she said, fighting the smile off her face. Who would have guessed that Severus Snape was the Director, and so much of what they knew about history was so _wrong?_ She couldn't _wait_ to tell the others at this year's Recounting.


End file.
